


Paper Trail

by nadia5803



Series: liaisons by nadia [4]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Enemies, Ensemble Cast, Everyone Is Gay, Forbidden Romance, Gay, International Relations, LGBTQ Character, Let's be real., M/M, Mother-Son Relationship, Political Drama, Things are heating up, europe is gay, fun in the european union, might as well tag everyone, was not expecting to continue this but i’m having a blast
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-23
Updated: 2020-06-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:01:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 24,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23272138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nadia5803/pseuds/nadia5803
Summary: The accountant has had enough.Unfortunately, it’s easy to get overzealous when you’re upset.Great. Europe’s teetering off balance again. Just another day in 2034.
Series: liaisons by nadia [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1631752
Comments: 11
Kudos: 2





	1. Chapter 1

Cvetko never was never one to pray, but that night he did. He sat on the floor, kneeling till his knees hurt, running up and down his rosary until his fingertips felt numb. His room felt cold, empty, unfamiliar, the blue coldness of the night seeping in through the single window. 

After what felt like hours, he finally let the rosary drop as he rolled back onto the floor, his eyes glazing over at the white ceiling as his mind blanked and he closed his eyes, almost drifting off before a familiar voice shouted into the void of his mind.

“Do it.”

“Do what?” Cvetko sat up, rubbing his eyes and looking around for the familiar green figure and the red crinoline. Fedya perched on the bed, his crooked grin wrapping around his face. “You know.”

“I don’t.”

A tap on his shoulder. Cvetko turned back around and felt Svetlana grab him. “Don’t listen to him.”He already began to feel dizzy. “What are you guys even talking about?”

“You can’t rush this, idiot,” Svetlana muttered, climbing over Cvetko to reach Fedya. Her voice lowered itself into a whisper. “It needs to happen on his own time.”

“What needs to happen on my own time?” It hurt to bend his knees even after the medicine had kicked in, but he managed to do so, standing like a faraway child as the two adults bickered away.

“You know this needs to happen, Svetlana.”

“Not tonight. Not now.”

“When else is every head of state in Europe concentrated in one place?”

“I’m not having this conversation, it’s not happening tonight.”

“What the hell are you guys talking about?” Cvetko interrupted, his hand clenched into a small fist. He squeezed and loosened his fingers - they still felt sore as well, and he cringed as he tightened them. “Nothing,” Svetlana replied. “I think you need to get some sleep, kiddo,” she said, walking over to him and wrapping an arm around his shoulder. He tried to press into her. Nothing, of course. Fedya’s sour expression brought Cvetko back and he frowned. “No, um... I wanna hear what he has to say. Sorry. I just. I want to know. I think I deserve to know if it’s about me.” He pulled away, and Svetlana, shocked, glared down at her shoes.

“Don’t you dare,” she hissed as Fedya opened his mouth. “Vranchev, I’ll kill you again,” she threatened, pushing by Cvetko again to tower over him. Fedya rose to his feet, placing his hands behind his back. “I’d like to see you try.”

“Guys!”

Their bickering blurred as more voices chimed in. Every individual one needed to get their say. Each and every one. Cvetko dropped to his knees, feeling the pressure of the freezing air above him, and groped the floor for his rosary. He felt the tiny string of beads looped within the carpet, and he twisted it around his finger, pulling it bank with a yank.

The voices suddenly stopped.

The onyx cross sat in his hand cold and flat. He inhaled through his nose and looked around the empty room, looping the rosary above his head and into his shirt. His mind raced. His thoughts were free from the amalgam of voices. He breathed a sigh of relief, and walked over to his desk. How heavy and sore his limbs felt. It’s amazing what a bit of poison can do, he thought. Oh, how amazing it was to think. 

To think.

A light filled the dark room and Cvetko sat at his desk, reached beneath the chair, and pulled out the manila folder. Bright orange against the dim blue room. His fingertips found the hatch, and he felt his heart pound as he began to open it. The papers slid out against the desk, and the pink notecard he had written caught his eye. Against the pink were that set of names, quickly etched down in pencil. He picked up the card and scanned it up and down.

_ Lloyd Fowler _

_ Angeline Toussaint _

_ Henri Toussaint _

_ Luna Schulholf _

_ Helmut Auernheimer _

_ Milos de Bloeme _

_ Izet Kovac  _

_ Petra Popovic _

_ Aurelia Wittenberg _

_ Pavla Klimesova _

_ Arpad Valentin _

_ Oksana Juravschi _

_ Heincs Osis _

_ Lacramioara Gherea _

_ Acchim Zweifelhofer _

_ Yasmin Pekara  _

_ Aglika Kostova _

_ Pietro Naumenko _

_ Svetlana Arsic _

His mind wandered. All these people here. His mind wandered further. No voices. The people who weren’t on here weren’t angels themselves. Oh, no. Especially not

_ Ben Hunter _

_ Gustava Nielsen _

_ Patryka Cielenski _

_Ben Hunter_.

Normally, he thought in numbers. Each move was calculated. Life was a game of chess. You always have to be one step ahead. Cvetko switched on the computer. The numbers were gone. His fingers found the keys they needed to find, his eyes could see despite the fact that his glasses were off. Oh, he knew what he had to do. All the documents he had saved. All the things he found. Everything he gleaned. And, of course... he reached in his pocket and found Fedya’s flash drive.

He knew he shouldn’t have taken it.

He new he would regret it.

But in this moment, there was no time for regret. No time for the past or the future. Each second gone by was a second of retribution lost. Every second was a mistake. Cvetko ran his hands up the flash drive, and he squeezed it tight in his fist. The fist sent shockwaves of pain through him but he swallowed it down, spun the flashdrive in his hand, and slammed it into the side of the computer.

He made sure the printer beneath his desk was on.

Ben Hunter knew his political opponents were being assassinated and did nothing to stop it.

Ben Hunter massacred innocent court workers on the night of the Royal fall.

Ben Hunter was a cheater.

Ben Hunter lied.

People died.

Gustava Nielsen helped her cousins get elected to presidential offices.

Gustava Nielsen stole money from citizens to give to the Swedish royal family.

Gustava Nielsen lied.

Patryka Cielenski had coerced sex with the president of Hungary for an alliance.

Patryka Cielenski helped with the repeated usurptation of the Belarusian throne.

Patryka Cielenski lied.

People died.

The printer crackled as all the papers flew out. One after another. He was amazed at Fedya’s skills - he had gathered everything from everyone. Each incriminating email and text, each misstep and intentional mistake. Each bought lobbyist, each incident of scheming and lying. Each moment that caused the continent to teeter on the verge of war. Each moment that caused an untimely death, an act of silencing, a forced hand.

It was all there.

They were all here.

He selected everything. Double checked and triple checked. Switched on the VPN. 

_ Dear Yana, _

_ Weirdest whistleblower ever.  _

_ Love,  _

_ Цветко . _

457 files attatched.

One click and it was done. He sat back in his chair and listened to the grunt of the printer.

Eventually it came to a halt and Cvetko gathered the papers from the folder and from the floor. Computer shut. Flashdrive in his pocket. Room lights off. Papers in hand, beneath his arm.

His door clicked shut behind him. He turned to look down the empty hallway, and his feet took him where he needed to go. The stack of papers cozied beneath his arm. The racing of his mind. The silence. 

No voices. No cold air. No soft glow and chiffon and wire crinoline. Silence. 

It was waiting for him at the end of the hall. He pushed the door open and turned on the copier. The blue light filled the dark room once again. With the glow on his face, the copier charged, everything in place, he pushed the button and it began. The rustle of the papers, the hum of the machine, the soft outline of white on his face as the copier did its work and the papers flew out, wild and free. It didn’t matter which order they were in. They just needed to be out there. 

Soon, the beeping would stop. The papers would stop flying. Soon, Cvetko would pick up every paper, no matter what order it was in, and hold it in his sore arms like it was a newborn child. The door would open. The lights down the hallway would flicker. 

Each hallway would be ankle deep in document. Each wall would be plastered with the shame of every head of state. By morning, every journalist in Europe would see the product of a deranged unknown whistleblower. A scandal. A tragedy. A worldwide shocker.

Cvetko reached his door empty handed before morning, a trail of papers behind him.

As Cvetko Rajkovic placed his hand on the cold door handle and looked back at the neverending pathways of paper, he felt the corners of his mouth turn up and he grinned.

Cvetko Rajkovic laughed,

and the world would burn.


	2. Chapter 2

“Gustava.”

“Mmmm...”

“GUSTAVA. Wake the hell up.”

Gustava slowly opened her eyes to find her cousin Oliver, awake and standing at her bedside. “You need to get up. It’s an emergency.”

“I’m tired,” Gustava mumbled as she placed the pillow over her head.

“It’s the documents,” Oliver replied, stern as he started searching for Gustava’s civic wear.

“What documents?”

“ The  documents. Gustava, you know the ones. You need to see this. Please get up,” he pleaded.

Gustava, still half asleep, forced herself out of bed and changed in the restroom. She came back out disheveled, clean-faced, and yawning. She made sure not to forget her watch and binder as she followed Oliver out the door, only to feel the carpet disappear from beneath her feet and be replaced with the crinkling of paper. She lifted up her shoe and picked it off the floor, squinting her eyes to read the top of it.

From the office of Lloyd Fowler .

Uh oh. This was definitely not good.

Almost ankle-deep in papers, Gustava stared down the hallway and watched as Oliver started to pick through them. “Almost everyone’s here.”

“Even you?”

“Have not found one for me,” he replied, rubbing the back of his neck as he began to search through the collection he had accumlated. “Patryka Cielenski, Aurelia Wittenberg, Milan von Wibbelink, agh... Frans Perhonen.”

“What? Give me that,” Gustava walked over, holding the paper to her face before crinkling it in her face and kicking away the papers that flooded the hallway. “This is bullshit. I swear to god, I’m going to find whoever did this and put their head on a fucking stake.”

“Kind of overstepping there,” Oliver said, dropping the rest of the papers on the floor.

“Did you do it?” Gustava demanded, whipping around to face her cousin. Oliver put his hands up and snorted.

“No. Why would I dig up dirt on Frans of all people, Gustava? Of course I didn’t.”

“Ugh,” Gustava pinched her nose and rubbed her sleepy eyes with the back of her hand, yawning as she walked through the sea of papers. “Sorry, I’m tired.”

“I know.”

“What time is it?” Gustava asked, glancing at her watch behind blurred eyes. 

“8:30,” Oliver replied, digging for his phone. “Shit.”

“What?”

“My phone’s burning up, everyone’s freaking out thinking I did something incriminating.”

Gustava reached for her phone, her heart racing. She felt the heat of it in her palm, and indeed, her phone had been overloaded with notifications. “Fuck. Who told the goddamn press?” she asked, rubbing her eyes to make certain she hasn’t hallucinating the news notification. 

“I guess whoever leaked these did. Must have.”

For some reason, Gustava’s mind went to a certain two-faced backstabbing Kosovar. She shook her head and cleared her throat. “Well, everyone should be waking up now and seeing what happened. Shit. Can’t hear what Ben motherfucking Hunter has to say about this one. If there’s shit on Lloyd then there has to be shit on him, right?”

At that moment, another door in the hallway flew open, and Pavla Klimesova stood in the doorway, makeup already done and already fully dressed, phone in her hand. She eyed Gustava and Oliver with toxicity then stared at the ocean of papers on the floor and back up at the Scandinavians again.

“Crazy, huh?”

“I guess...” Gustava replied, rubbing the back of her neck.

“Pipsqueak. No shit on you?” Pavla asked, turning her attention to Oliver.

“I’m a member of the Greens, what do you think?” he replied, jamming his hands in his pockets.

“Touché. Okay, well, to be fair, you could have been anti-vax at one point. Or something,” Pavla offered. 

“I wasn’t.”

“Gold star for Norway. Where’s your sister?” she asked, pointing at Gustava. 

“Cousin. I don’t know where Klara’s room is. I think it’s in this hall somewhere, not sure,” Gustava replied with a shrug.

“Is there shit on you, Pavla Klimesova?” Oliver asked as she began to stroll down the hall, her high heels elevating her above the papers.

“Well, I’m a former stripper, pipsqueak, but we all knew that already,” she called back, waving a dismissive arm.

Gustava rubbed her eyes and glanced around the hallway. “Today’s meeting is going to be a shitshow,” she said as she began to walk towards the Cafeteria. 

“Oh, for sure,” Oliver said as he trailed behind, struggling to shut off his phone. “Like you said. Hunter’s going to have a power trip with this one. It’ll be like Lord of the Flies, except with a bunch of educated elected officials.”

“Can’t even say for certainty that all of us were elected,” Gustava replied. “Well. You think another president did it?”

“Not like anyone else would have the type of clearance to these files, or the access to the hallway. Seems like the latter must have been on purpose, right?”

“Or maybe they were just being dramatic,” she chuckled and reached her hands behind her head. The papers began to thin as they reached the open, empty cafeteria. Oliver grabbed two apples and tossed one at Gustava. “Well, someone comes to mind.”

“I know who. Don’t say it, let me guess,” Oliver said, lifting a finger and shutting his eyes. “Hunter.”

Gustava laughed. “Kuraqtim.” 

Oliver opened one eye, then both, as he quickly realized. “Oh, you’re serious. Him? He seems too nice to do something like this.”

“Agim Kuraqtim isn’t nice, he’s the most two-sided, ambidextrous and corrupt politician I’ve met in my life. Besides Ben, of course. But this whole thing has Kuraqtim written all over it, wouldn’t you agree?”

Slowly, Oliver shook his head no. Gustava sighed, taking a bite of the apple. “Whatever, we’ll see. It had to have been one of us, right?” Oliver thought and shifted his weight. “Hm. Aren’t there cameras? We can catch who this overdramatic bitch is easily.”

“No. Just look. And I’m pretty sure we can’t access it anyhow. Who’s even constructing this half-built building?”

“Probably someone Ben Hunter related. See, it could be him!” Oliver protested.

Gustava scratched her head and took another bite, beginning to awake. “No, it can’t be. Ben Hunter would never do something so blatant as this. He wouldn’t use Lloyd as bait, either, I’m sure of it. This definitely isn’t some inside job.”

Oliver sighed and tossed out the core to his apple. Footsteps echoed down the hall and the pair began to see more familiar faces appear outside, papers in their hands. “Well, it’s going to be one hell of a day, isn’t it?!” he said.

“Certainly,” Gustava clapped a hand on his back and threw hers out as she picked up her binder, thick with papers and articles and memos. Today, it felt heavier than usual. “Well, let’s get ready for some chaos.”

***

Laszlo Mincef was the first one there, tipping his chair back and forth when he was greeted by the faces of Gustava and Oliver. He looked nonplussed yet amused, a beguiled eyebrow cocked as she grabbed the handles of his wheelchair, tilting him to bring him up the steps.

“How long have you been waiting here?” she demanded.

“20 minutes,” Laszlo replied, breathing a sigh as she leveled him onto the eleveated step. Oliver took a seat beside him, as the two were, as Oliver so happily titled it, ‘name neighbors’. “They give me a nice nametag yet they can’t be bothered to give me a ramp. Western bullshit,” he mumbled. “Oh, Gustava.” Laszlo turned around, beckoning her before she headed down to her seat.

“What?”

“I didn’t do it.”

“I know you didn’t, Laszlo,” she replied, raising her eyebrows in concern for his self-defense prerequisite.

“Fantastic,” he replied, bristling with a grin as she took a seat at the table in front. “Good luck up there today. May the odds be ever in your favor,” Laszlo said, rolling his eyes.

She was the first of the upper four to arrive, leaving her glancing longingly at her usual seat up on the desk, adorned with her nametag and left empty. Her usual ‘name neighbors’, Lucia Carbonero of Spain and Amanda Schaub of Switzerland, were yet to arrive, and Gustava was almost certain they’d be abstaining from whatever vote or decision they’d be making today anyhow. Oliver gave her a wave, and Gustava smiled as she set her binder beneath her seat.

A few more filled into the ampitheatre, and the volume was higher than ever as murmurs were shared between the first few who were already there. Oliver and Laszlo seemed unbothered by the whole mess, and Laszlo looked like he was about to fall asleep from where Gustava was sitting until Komnena appeared at his side. Good. That would keep him awake. She exhaled and buried her face in her face in her hands before being interrupted by the sound of a chair. “Morning, Cvetko,” she offered as he took a seat.

The poor thing seemed more on edge then he had been the past few days. Of course, it made sense. Two days ago, an attempt on his life, and he had probably just filled his office less than two weeks ago. And now this. Gustava had never been one to like or support Svetlana Arsic, but she knew how tight the two had been, and pitied him for the beating that poor Svetlana’s damaged legacy would be taking once again. She sighed as he dimly smiled back at her, looking horribly exhausted, more exhausted than her. The next to arrive was Ben, and she followed him with a menacing look as he greeted Cvetko and sat beside Gustava, making sure to keep a noticeable separation between them. 

He didn’t greet her. He set his binder on the table and yawned. Gustava raised an eyebrow and leaned back in her chair. “Where the hell is Kuraqtim?” she asked.

Ben snorted and absently pushed up his glasses, placing his elbows on the table. “Hell if I know. If anything, this is an admission of his guilt.”

“Something we agree on, I guess,” Gustava replied, reaching for her binder beneath her seat and setting it on the table. Cvetko seemed a bit ruffled, but rubbed his eyes and placed his binder on the table as well.

Ben looked over at him, his legs crossed. “You seem more quiet than usual today, pal.”

Gustava gave him a look. 

Cvetko looked a bit dumbfounded, but bristled as he flipped his binder open. “Really? I hadn’t noticed,” he responded, venom in his tone. 

Needless to say, Gustava was almost taken aback by the response. She couldn’t tell if Cvetko was just exhausted or had a change of heart, but Ben noticed it too, backing off as he pushed up his glasses. 

Finally, after nearly all the seats had been filled in, and the volume in the room was a steady grumble, Mr. Agim Kuraqtim appeared in the doorway. The room fell silent as he walked to his seat at the table, joining the three with his eyes fixed on the floor.

“Someone finally joined us,” Ben muttered, avoiding eye contact with him as Mr. K took out his binder, clearing his throat as Ben rose to his feet, slamming his own shut.

“Needless to say, we can’t continue as planned today.”

With that, Gustava muffled a sigh, shutting her binder. 

“Certain circumstances have made it impossible and I’m definite you all know what those circumstances are.”

“What are the circumstances?” Laszlo shouted, cupping his hands around his mouth and grinning to himself as Ben forcefully chuckled.

“Unfortunately, it seems one of our own may have released some unsavory private documents to the public eye and most likely into the hands of the press. While none of us have properly analyzed these yet, it’s safe to say that none of these papers will be assisting us in the polls come April,” Ben coughed, setting his hands on the table and leaning forward. “Some of you also appear to be absent from indiction here. Congrats. You’ve won the game.”

Some mutters rippled through the crowd as Ben looked around, fixing his tie and taking a seat. “With the inclusion of certain undeniable facts it seems that the publisher of these documents is probably among us.” Shocker. “This is extremely immature and foolish. I know most of us have all had our personal issues in the past but to derail this much-needed session for political gain is so very disrespectful to Mr. Rajkovic.”

Cvetko looked uncomfortable and shifted in his seat, clammy as Ben continued. Gustava frowned, and watched from aside as he awkwardly rubbed his eyes. 

“It’s extremely disrespectful to Ms. Arsic and all the lives that were lost two weeks ago. Whoever did this should feel ashamed of themselves. So, on that note...”

Ben whipped out a stack of papers from his bag, freshly printed. 

“I was luckily able to acquire the names of each person affected by this. The European Union will try and protect you this coming election season. Additionally,” Ben eyed everyone in the room, clearing his throat as he smiled like the sleazy politician he was. “Today, we will be directing our resources to indictment of whoever did this. I’ve contacted Europol. We will be prosecuting in private as to not cause more media backlash, but... whoever did this, we’re going to find you. Today. Together. We will have all the facts, all the information, everything from the horse’s mouth. Here.”

Gustava blinked. “What?”

Cvetko’s mouth fell open.

Ben Hunter was back to his glorified game of political chess. Weeding out his opponents in places he shouldn’t be sticking his nose. And now, a literal witch hunt. Fantastic.

Ben turned to Mr. K, a grin on his face. “If anyone would like to step forward now, it would save us a lot of time.”

Silence. Dead silence. Gustava couldn’t even hear the rustle of the vents, the fluorescent hum, the ambience. Just an eerie silence.

Mr. Agim Kuraqtim held his ground, hands folded on the table, his eyes burning with rage as Ben faced the crowd.

“I suppose not,” he said. “Well...” Ben Hunter picked up his stack of paper, tucking it under his shoulder and kicking Mr. K’s seat as he began to pass out papers to the front row.

Gustava’s gaze flashed to the horrified looks of her friends and allies. The indifferent looks of the independents, the nearly dumbfounded and shocked grins of Ben’s friends and allies. Cvetko Rajkovic rose to his feet as Ben acosted him by the shoulder, jamming a pper into his hand. He looked over at Gustava, terrified, as Ben wrapped an arm around him, facing the crowd of leaders.

“Let’s begin, shall we?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cvetko fucked up


	3. Chapter 3

“I don’t think I can do this.”

“Of course you can. You’re smart, adaptable. You’ll fit in here in no time,” Mr. K replied, throwing on his shirt as he rose out of the bed.

Cvetko rubbed his face and rolled onto his side, hugging himself. Mr. K stared at him as it began to make sense.

“Are you breaking up with me?” 

“No! No. Please, no,” Cvetko rolled over, stepping out of bed as Mr. K began to button his shirt. “I couldn’t live without you. I love you. Hey,” his tiny voice cracked as Mr. K clasped his belt buckle, turning away from Cvetko as he grabbed his tie off the ground. Hesitantly, Cvetko placed a hand on his boyfriend’s back, rubbing it back and forth.

“Then what are you talking about?” he asked as he tucked his tie beneath his collar.

“Ah... dear, let me do it,” Cvetko said as he grabbed the blue tie, making sure it was firm and nicely adjusted beneath the collar and the right length. “I just... I don’t want us to be found out.”

“Laszlo already knows.”

“Laszlo isn’t the general public. And I’m friends with him. You know we could be starting a whole war with this, right?” His gestures failed and Cvetko let his hands drop. Not even the presence of Mr. K could cure Cvetko’s anxiety today, and he sunk beside the bed, face in his hands. Mr. K stooped down to his boyfriend’s side and gently took his hand in his.

“Maybe we do need a break,” Mr. K sighed, helping Cvetko to his feet. “Look, you and I both know you weren’t meant to become a head of state. This was all so much easier when you were a finance minister. This just complicates everything else more so much more.” He took a breath as Cvetko began to button up his shirt and placed his glasses on the bridge of his nose. “Maybe I should resign.”

“No…” Cvetko ran a hand through his hair and grabbed Mr. K’s hands, helplessly looking up at him. “Don’t, please.”

“I think it’s for the best. You know, they’re going to accuse me for this. They already are.”

“I can’t do this without you,” Cvetko pleaded, his voice breaking as Mr. K squeezed his hands.

“Of course you can. I’ll get Komnena to protect you. Cvetko. Look at me,” Mr. K tilted up his boyfriend’s chin. “Breathe. Jesus christ, you’re freaking out. Please,  _ breathe _ .” He furrowed his eyebrows, encasing Cvetko in a hug and lifting him off his feet. “I think you need to sleep,” he mumbled, setting him on the bed.

“No, I don’t need to sleep. Stop telling me I need to sleep,” he hissed, rolling out of bed and trailing Mr. K. Mr. K ignored him, grabbing his shoes as he headed for the door. Fuming, Cvetko grabbed his arm, and with all his strength, dragged him backwards.

“I don’t need to fucking sleep! You’re always acting like you’re so much wiser than me. Stop treating me like I’m a child! I’m not a goddamn child, Agim, I’m so sick of everyone treating me like I’m a child,” Cvetko snapped, drawing his hand back as Mr. K faced him. His rapid breathing eventually slowed as Mr. K grabbed his hand, leading him to the bedside. For a few minutes, the pair just sat there in silence, fingers interlocked.

“I’m sorry,” Mr. K said at last. Cvetko let out a relieved sigh and buried his face in his boyfriend’s shoulder. 

“Please don’t resign,” he mumbled as Mr. K placed a hand on his. 

“It was only a matter of time, flower. I need to. There’s much more qualified people in Pristina, people much more qualified than me,” he muttered, rubbing his face and setting his glasses on the bed sheet.

Cvetko snorted, chuckling as he glanced up at the ceiling. “And what if they see it as an admission of your guilt? What if the Union brings you to the Hague? What if you get prosecuted? And what if the person who replaces you wants my head on a platter? You said it yourself, you’re about the most diplomatic person in Pristina. I don’t need to fight a war. I can’t,” he wheezed, placing his hands on his stomach as he laid back down on the mattress.

“What if, what if, what if. Please don’t worry. I’m not guilty. I didn’t do it. But you knew that already,” he replied, laying down beside Cvetko and squeezing his hand. “I’ll think about it, okay? It’s not set in stone. Let’s see how I feel after all this. Okay?”

  
“Okay.”

They laid there in silence, fingers intertwined as they stared up at the ceiling for a few moments.

“I love you.”   
  


“I love you too.”

***

“And, so, it seems like the sensible, educated guess, that Mr. Agim Kuraqtim is responsible for this overnight mess, correct?” 

Cvetko wasn’t even paying attention to Ben’s spiel, and he kept his phone beneath his desk, sending his boyfriend a string of texts as Mr. K sat there, deadpan as Ben circled him, occasionally checking his phone with a glance. After a few minutes of relentless texting, another notification came across the screen.

_ Gustava _

STOP.

Cvetko looked up at her. She set her phone facedown on the table and glared at him. He tried to glare back. It didn’t work. Gustava crossed her legs, shifting her chair sideways. He bit his lip, clasping his hands together as he mentally prepared himself for the lecture he was about to receive.

  
“Stop it. You can’t be on your phone, this isn’t primary school.”

“Not like you care about anything he’s saying,” Cvetko shot back, eyeing Ben from where he sat. 

“That has nothing to do with this. Now, I better not see you on your phone again. Write a speech or something.”

Cvetko sat there, and opened his binder, staring at the poor sentences he had strung together in Serbian, and desperately tried to translate into English, from earlier. With his failure staring him in the face, he closed it again. “Do you know her?”

“Who?” Gustava asked.

“Zehra Vladic.”

Gustava turned away, silent as Cvetko watched behind raised eyebrows. “So you do know her.”

  
“We’re not having this conversation here, Cvetko,” she responded, avoiding eye contact with him and gazing over at a fanatic Ben.

“You told me you were different from Ben. You’re  _ just _ like him,” he hissed as Gustava shut her binder.

  
“I’m not. It didn’t go anywhere. I’m not dealing with the Vladics, okay? Stop inserting yourself where you don’t belong,” 

“Where I don’t belong- Gustava, she told me herself that  _ you _ contacted  _ her _ ,” Cvetko replied, removing his glasses and rubbing his eyes as Gustava shifted in her chair.

  
“She’s lying. Now, you need to stop talking, because we are not about to have this conversation here,” Gustava replied with confidence, giving Cvetko a harsh look. He balked, leaning back in his seat with his arms folded. 

“Now, do you have anything to say for yourself?” Ben demanded as he leaned against Mr. K’s seat. 

“No. I didn’t do it. I’m not responsible for this,” Mr. K replied, plain and simple.

“Yeah, alright,” Ben replied. “Alright. Get out of here.”

Mr. K got to his feet and joined Gustava and Cvetko at the table. He was able to check his phone for longer than two seconds now, and glanced up at Cvetko with a raised eyebrow.

_ My Love _

Wow lol

_ My Love _

I’ll read these later

_ Me _

Love you

Cvetko set his phone down again. Ben took his place on the podium, facing the crowd of other leaders. Some looked agreeable, a few unbothered, a few still indifferent to the mess that was this meeting.

“Now, does anyone want to make a case for another person they believe could be responsible for this?”

_ My Love _

This whole thing is ridiculous

Gustava was silent. Cvetko glanced absentmindedly at a few of his neighbors, wondering if they would stand up for Mr. K. Hopefully, so he didn’t have to. No one. He watched Laszlo nervously break his eye contact with him, then looked over at Komnena, on her phone, and Katya, staring down at the binder at her desk.

It seemed as if he was on his own.

“No one?”

Cvetko held his binder to his chest and got to his feet.

  
_ My Love _

what the hell are you doing

“I’d like to present a second opinion.”   
  


Ben looked a bit shocked as he fixed his eyes on Cvetko, standing defiant at 5’3 with his binder tucked in his hands. Inside that binder, hidden away in the back, was a manila folder which held all the documents he had released last night. He lifted his head, smiled politely at Ben and out at the crowd.

_ My Love _

stop it

“You?” Ben asked. He laughed and stepped down from the podium. “Well, be my guest. I guess it’s Agim’s unlucky day,” he muttered, clapping Cvetko on the back as he rose to the podium. He had to stand on the tips of his toes to see just above the podium, but anyhow, he set the binder down and adjusted the microphone to his height. 

  
_ My Love _

what are you doing

_ My Love _

don’t do this

Cvetko set his phone face down on the podium and looked out at his familiars. He flipped open the binder, glossing over his chicken scratch and taking a brief look at the bright orange folder tucked behind the dozens of strewn memos and papers. “Hello everyone.”

He flipped the folder open and removed a few of the documents, searching for a certain name on the header. Cvetko exhaled, and looked over his shoulder at Ben, Gustava, Mr. K, who was mouthing words he couldn’t hear. Cvetko felt the cross around his wrist, and looked out, raising his voice.

“I’d like to make a case against Ben Hunter, Prime Minister of England.”


	4. Chapter 4

Gasps. Exchanged glances. Even a few of the sleepers awoke, watching as Cvetko readied his materials. Gustava herself felt a bit stunned at the sudden change of heart from the boy.

“Did you do this?” Gustava asked, leaning over to Mr. K, who reclined away in response. 

“I did not,” Mr. K replied, staring at the back of Cvetko’s head as he began his tirade. Ben stood there, half out of his seat, before he dropped back down. Unwilling to fight someone so small - Ben was much better suited to picking on someone his own size. But he wasn’t expecting Cvetko to strike the first blow.

“How much did you pay him to do this?” Gustava demanded.

“I told you, I didn’t do this. Don’t blame me, I barely know him,” Mr. K pushed up his glasses, looking Gustava up and down as she fell back into her seat. “I don’t know why he’s doing this so don’t accuse me of it. All you Westerners do is accuse me, it seems,” he muttered, lifting up his hands in a show of surrender.

Gustava rolled her eyes and made an executive decision to ignore him, instead shifting her focus to Cvetko.

“Ben Hunter has consistently expressed petty behavior, participated in the spread of untrue rumors, invoked a major increase in surveillance to his own people… all this points to is a helplessly insecure manchild willing to bait his own allies out in an attempt to feel political superiority. But, in truth, Ben Hunter is far from politically superior to all of us.”   
  


Truly, she couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Cvetko Rajkovic, with a minor stutter and tendency for crippling fear and anxiety, standing atop the podium, accusing the most powerful man in Europe of political slander. And so harshly! It was an impressive display and an even more impressive change of heart, and she was certain many more in that crowd would agree.

“We all know Ben Hunter as the man who abolished the monarchy through more or less means of violence, and if this tells us anything, it shows his destructive streak. He’s been rude, condescending, commandeering, even to almost everyone in this room. We’re his equals and his familiars, mind you.”

She could sense that he was a bit nervous. Hands trembling as he looked through his binder, his eyes directed away from the crowd. But his voice was strong, his stature defiant, his words brave. Gustava raised an eyebrow and looked at Mr. K, who had his head propped up on his fist, dumbfounded as Cvetko strung together his improvised speech.

“And you may be wondering why I, a Serb, am defending Agim Kuraqtim, a Kosovar.”

Cvetko looked over his shoulder and smiled, pushing up his glasses with a stray hand. He lifted up his chin, and examined the crowd. “I believe that the truth goes deeper than political boundaries and what Ben Hunter is saying is untrue. I know Mr. Kuraqtim to be a polite, honest, well-rounded man from my years of working in Svetlana’s cabinet, and I don’t believe that he would stoop this low to fill a political agenda. On the other hand…”   
  


Gustava’s heart raced. For some reason, as she listened to him, her adrenaline began to pump. Her eyes scanned the room and met Oliver, who also looked a bit shocked, taking all of it in, and Laszlo. Laszlo was smiling. Nobody else was. But Laszlo had a full-faced grin, almost as if he were about to burst into laughter in the middle of Cvetko’s life-altering speech. She couldn’t help but find it a tad bit strange, especially considering Laszlo’s angsty demeanor as of late. 

“Ben Hunter is known to aim at low-hanging fruit. And from his consistent patterns of disrespect, dismissal, and rude behavior, it’s easy to see he wouldn’t mind throwing us under the bus at all. Ben Hunter is...”

Cvetko stretched a shaky, accusatory arm out at Ben, who sat unbothered in his chair. Gustava could see it in his eyes, however, how unamused he was at this sudden betrayal. She had to admit - it was gutsy for a person of Cvetko’s size to stand up to Ben.

“A liar.”

Gustava watched the tension exit Cvetko’s body, his shoulders dropping as he nervously glanced around the room. His voice went a bit feeble, and he smiled one last time. “Thank you.”

Nobody clapped. Laszlo’s face fell back into seriousness and he opened up his binder. Cvetko turned to leave, before Ben curveballed over to him, joining his side with a grin on his face. “Fantastic. I didn’t know he had it in him,” he said, wrapping an arm around Cvetko and bringing him close. Gustava felt ill watching this charade - right after this, Cvetko would be toast once Ben got his hands on him. She pitied him from the start of his presidency - today, even moreso. 

“I would think, that after we have had both of these cases presented to us, we should move to the debate room, perhaps. That way, we’re all in a circle, we can all vote,” Ben offered with a wave of his hand. 

“Vote on what?” Gustava muttered. The faces of everybody else mirrored her confusion.

Ben tilted his head. “Oh, you all seem a bit frazzled. Let me put it this way - let’s vote on whoever  _ we  _ think committed this heinous act. I mean, we’ve narrowed it down, haven’t we?” he said, giving Cvetko a playful shake. “Let’s find a verdict. We won’t know for certain, but it’ll be a good start.”

Of course. Ben wouldn’t play a game like this until he was certain he would win. Gustava put her face in her hands and exhaled, shaking her head. Cvetko and Agim were about to be politically crucified by the largest kingpin in the continent. This would not end well. She took a look at the latter - Agim sat there, stone-faced. But Gustava could see his hands shaking as Ben Hunter addressed the ensemble of presidents a final time.

“Let’s take a brief recess, shall we? Pool our notes, make an educated decision, discuss with each other. Then we can vote.”   
  


A few people already made their exit. Some looked just as nervous and fidgety as Mr. K. Others looked gleeful, others nonplussed. Gustava stood up, putting her hand on Mr. K’s shoulder for a moment as she headed to join Laszlo and her cousin. no

  
“You’ll be fine,” she offered. 

“I didn’t do it,” he responded bitterly.

She looked away from him and pinched her nose. Gustava didn’t look at Ben or Cvetko as she passed by, merely took a step up and grabbed the handles of Laszlo’s wheelchair, carefully steering him down the steps. “Why were you laughing?” she asked.

“What?” Laszlo eyed her and raised an eyebrow.   
  
“I saw you laughing like the poor thing’s speech was the funniest thing in the universe.”

“Well, it was funny. Hilarious, actually,” he replied, rolling his eyes. “Do you have a sense of humor, Gustava?”

  
She didn’t reply. She set him on the floor, and Laszlo thanked her before hurrying off. Oliver joined her side, and the pair gazed at the empty rows of seats.

“So, what are you going to do?” Gustava asked. The door shut behind them, leaving them alone in the room. Oliver looked at her and then out at the empty chairs.

  
“I’m going to abstain,” he replied, tilting his head to look at his feet.

“What?” 

  
“You heard me. I’m abstaining.”   
  


“Oliver, I don’t care if you’re a member of the Green Party or even if you’re a goddamn Communist, you need to make a choice here. It’s the right thing to do,” Gustava rarely felt angry at her cousins for their politics, but for a brief second, she couldn’t resist feeling betrayed. “You can’t just let him get away with this.”

  
“I’m not voting with party interests. I already know my choice, and I’m choosing not to make one,” He side-eyed her and let out a labored exhale, scratching his chin as Gustava towered over him. Oliver lifted up his hands in defense and turned away from her, starting to the door. “I am  _ not _ falling into this trap.”

“Oliver-”

“You aren’t going to change my mind on this,” he said, flicking a dismissive hand as he headed to the door.

  
“Please think about it!” she called after him. He didn’t respond. Gustava sighed, completely alone in the meeting room. It felt cold, unfamiliar, unfriendly. More than usual. Today, something was off. She rubbed her arms, looked down at her feet, and grabbed her binder from off the desk.

She took another look at the room as the sensor lights started to dim. She took a deep breath, and studied the nametags which had been placed on the table. Ben Hunter, Agim Kuraqtim, Cvetko Rajkovic. Lined up, facing hers - Gustava Nielsen. Gustava placed her hand on top of hers, and thought.

  
She knew the choice she was going to make.

Maybe not the most attractive one. Perhaps one that would draw controversy. Perhaps, even cost her the seat that she had managed to hold onto for 9 years.

  
But, deep down, she knew it was the right one to make.

***

Zehra Vladic was a fit, youthful woman with a sharp smile and gorgeous, piercing eyes, and Gustava found herself facing her. She held a cup of tea, rapping her fingers against the finish as Gustava seated herself. “I hope you don’t mind that I let myself in, Ms. Nielsen,” she said.   
  
“No,” Gustava rubbed the back of her neck and reclined backward as Zehra twirled the cup of tea in her hand, studying Gustava behind squinted eyes. 

  
“So, why am I here?” she asked, crossing her legs as Gustava rubbed her neck nervously.

“I need… help.” Yes. Help. Political help. Great, Gustava, you’re a political prostitute now, she thought to herself. Fantastic move. This would have no repercussions whatsoever.

“Who referred you?” Zehra leaned forward, reaching in her bag and removing a binder. She flipped it open, beginning to flip through the pages as Gustava fidgeted with her sleeve.

  
Gustava swallowed. “I’d rather not say.” This was dishonorable enough. She wouldn’t stoop to another degree of betrayal as Zehra found an empty spreadsheet. 

“That’s fine, no issue. But, I should let you know that we conduct business differently with people of your status,” Zehra said, keeping her eyes down as she began to write in on the sheet. “It’s impossible for me to figure out all the details of our deal here, but we can keep in contact over the next few weeks and make a solid plan. What are you looking for, Gustava?”

“Well, I-”   
  


“Some of the services we offer are racketeering, election assurance, the swift removal of political opponents, and-”

“What… was that last one?”

“Nothing. Anyways, what exactly are you looking for?” She tapped her pen against the binder and glanced up at Gustava, smiling as Gustava’s unease deepened.

“Election assurance,” Gustava mumbled, knocking her knees together as Zehra nodded, tapping the pen against her chin.

  
“Yes, now, you’re a prime minister, so that’ll be a bit difficult. Parliamentary, correct?”

“Correct. But it’s a bit easier, because as long as fewer than 175 members vote no, then I’ll get re-elected, so…”

“I know,” Zehra replied, crossing her legs and placing the binder on her lap. Gustava shifted and looked aside. “So, why do you need our help, then?”

Well, she wasn’t wrong. “I’m worried. For the coming years. I want a safety net. You get it?”

  
“I get it.” Zehra nodded, a sharp smile on her face. “Well, my husband and I will have to work out the specifics if you want to ensure the reelection of your party. You’ll have to pay €250,000 to us. Right now, all you need to do is sign, but… payments will be necessary.”

“Of course, I understand,” Gustava nodded, her leg bouncing as Zehra searched for the thick contract at the end of the binder. She handed it to Gustava, and she felt the weight of the packet in her hands as she lifted it up and down.

“There will be a deposit fee, of course, but that information won’t be necessary now.”

“Can I talk to a lawyer?” Gustava wondered out loud as she flipped through the packet. Zehra placed a hand on the packet and smiled up at Gustava.

  
“Shouldn’t be necessary. You can read through it if you want, most of it is just semantics, but… everything is perfectly legal.”

That seemed like a red flag. Gustava flashed a nervous smile at Zehra as she removed her hands then peeked at the end of the packet, where the empty signature space sat. 

  
“Please take your time,” Zehra said, reclining back in her chair as Gustava flipped the packet over again.

She began to wonder if this was the right move.

  
The words seemed to blend together as she went through the pages again, and she couldn’t help but wonder if it was on purpose. Gustava weighed the options in her head once again. Power. Reelection. Prevention of whatever Ben Hunter had in mind, an extensive political resume. Was a deal with two shady Turkish businesspeople really going to ensure that that future would be set in stone? No. €250,000 for nothing, most likely. 

She took another look at the signature space. Empty. Letting out a heavy sigh, Gustava shook her head, handing the packet back to Zehra. “I don’t think I can take this deal,” she said as Zehra raised an eyebrow.

  
“You’re certain? I promise you won’t be disappointed by what we have to offer,” Zehra protested. Gustava smiled and shook her head, raising her hand.

“I’m certain. I’m afraid I can’t make this deal,”   
  
“Why don’t you sleep on it? Many of your familiars have chosen this path. They weren’t disappointed by it. I encourage you to think about it further, Gustava,” Zehra said, hands folded.

“Perhaps I will.” Gustava sat up, hands folded as she shifted in her space. Zehra exhaled through her nose and took the contract, tucking it back into her binder as another exaggerated, sharp smile crossed her face. 

“Well, I hope you do. You do have my number, correct?”

“Yes.” Gustava smiled back at her, trying her best to seem cordial as Zehra made her leave. 

  
“Goodbye, Ms. Nielsen, I hope I’ll be hearing from you soon,” she said, the door shutting behind her.

Gustava sat there, alone, dumbfounded, facing an empty teacup and an empty chair, but the tension left her body and her shoulders fell back in relief. She placed a hand on her face, squeezing her nose as she crumpled back into the chair, legs on the table. 

“Fuck me.”

She hadn’t paid a cent or signed a thing over to them. She held her ground, and she was almost certain that she wouldn’t be calling Zehra Vladic again. She couldn’t imagine what the repercussions would have been if she had been foolish enough to take it. And her mind crept to her other familiars who, as Zehra put it, ‘took the route’. It seemed unwise, foolish. Who would have taken such a deal as risky and expensive as this?   
  


Of course, not everyone could be as perceptive to this as Gustava, perhaps, but she felt as if the red flags should have been staring them in the face. Either, everyone who had taken this deal was rather foolish, or… maybe, just maybe, they’d been backed into a corner. Gustava’s head began to hurt, and she heaved out of the chair, picking up the teacup and heading into the kitchen.

Gustava had not paid a cent or signed a thing.

But she couldn’t help but feel as if she’d given her life away.


	5. Chapter 5

“You did this on purpose, didn’t you?”

Fedya was silent as Cvetko stared him down. His hands trembled, either from the stress, the anger or a combination of the two, but his face remained stolid as Fedya rose to his feet, hands behind his back.

“Answer me.”

Silence. Fedya paced in a quick circle as he perched back up on the desk, his legs crossed. Cvetko fumed, trying his best to conceal his anger as he faced the ghost.

“Answer me, or I swear, I’ll-“

“You’ll what? Kill me? Sorry. I’m already ahead of the game,” Fedya cocked a condescending eyebrow and rose from his spot, bending down at the knee in order to reach Cvetko’s height. “Is the little baby going to cry? Boohoo.” Fedya stuck out his bottom lip, mockingly wiping away a fake tear as Cvetko bristled with rage.

Normally, he would be crying, or at the least, very upset. But all that sadness and fear had been replaced with anger, and he tailed Fedya as he drifted into another corner of the room. “You asshole. I’m going to be crucified, and it’s your fault. You did all of this on purpose, didn’t you? Just another game to you.”

Fedya looked aside, silent as Cvetko seethed. “You set a trap for me. The flashdrive. You knew about it?”

Still quiet.

“Silence is deafening, Fedya. You knew this would happen from the start and you’re just going to sit back and watch the world burn.”

Cvetko laughed and took the flash drive from his back pocket, throwing it on the floor in a rage and slamming his foot down on it over and over until he lifted up his shoe and saw the scattered bits of circuitry and casing lying astray on the carpet.

“I guess that’s what you wanted all along. Well... there you go.”

Fedya stared at the bits of the destroyed flash drive, then back up at a seething Cvetko, and lunged at him, screaming at the top of his lungs. “You blithering idiot! You idiot! How dare you? How dare you?!” 

“Fedya-“

“No, let me have this.” 

Cvetko laid back on the floor, hands behind his head as Fedya leaned forward, his face contorted in complete rage. Fedya was dead, unable to touch or feel, but he wrapped his dead hands around Cvetko’s neck and squeezed. “I swear to god, I’ll kill you. You self-obsessed spastic little cretin. Do you know what you are? You are nothing but a child. A little angry child throwing a temper tantrum because mommy Svetlana isn’t there to help him.” Fedya pulled back, his shaking hands wrapped into fists as Cvetko laid there, still unbothered and stoic. Seeing as his attempt to ascertain a reaction had failed, Fedya doubled back and shakily rose to his feet. “You will never be one of us. You will always be nothing except some shitfaced little kid. You are  _ never _ going to be my familiar.”

As Fedya threw his shoulders back, turning to leave, Cvetko’s gaze went to Svetlana. Svetlana’s eyes burned with a visceral, motherly rage.

“He’s your problem now,” Fedya said, retired. Cvetko felt the palpitating rage in the air push back and subside, signaling Fedya’s absence, and he rose to his feet, avoiding eye contact with Svetlana as he took a seat at the desk.

“Cvetko.”

“What?” 

“He- he didn’t mean that.” Even Svetlana seemed lost for words. Cvetko took a long exhale, removing his glasses as Svetlana appeared over his shoulder. 

“This is all his fault. I’m fucked. God, I’m so fucked. Why did he do this? Why- Svetlana, why did you let him do this?”

She was silent as he got to his feet, drawing the curtains open and allowing light to enter the room. “I just want to understand why.” 

Svetlana narrowed her eyes. Yes, the fragile and cowardly pansy of a man she had known had suddenly been replaced by a venomous snake. Cvetko had his days before all this had occurred. She knew when he was off and what it looked like and how to handle it, seeing as she seemed to be the only older adult in his life whoever gave him an ounce of care or respect. Though he had only worked for her for a year or two Svetlana just about saw him as her son and had showered him in all the paternal care he had lacked in his younger years.

But then Svetlana’s life and reign were cut short, and her little boy was left alone. And she was fortunate to be here for him. But now, now? She couldn’t risk everything she’d worked for being lost. She couldn’t have her seat taken by some politician hellbent on reversing everything she had worked so hard on for the past 9 years. However, a skittish little man with the confidence of a grape and with the political experience of a daisy could not uphold that legacy on such small shoulders — therefore, a change was necessary. 

So, when Fedya Vranchev tells you his plan, his grand, foolproof plan to ensure Serbia won’t become an unstable backwater state, you accept. You accept because you are scared, and you are determined. You accept because your emotions are high and you feel betrayed that a person you trusted so deeply and cared for so much was sleeping with your worst enemy. Perhaps, even, your killer. You accept because you have a legacy to uphold. You accept due to the fact you have a responsibility even after you have died, and that responsibility weighs on your shoulders for eternity.

Yes, the plan had worked. Yes, the old Cvetko was gone, replaced with a shadow of himself and no longer innocent to the rancid and indecent truths of the political world. But how much had it cost?

“Svetlana, I’d like an answer.”

Cvetko stared at her. His fists were balled up, his breathing still heavy and his heart still pounding with the adrenaline he had received from his speech. 

“It had to be done,” she replied, simply, not missing a beat and keeping her expression stoic as Cvetko glared at her with all the hatred of a betrayed teenage boy.

“You are not my mother.” Cvetko stormed past her, grabbing his suitcase, his folder, his glasses off the desk. “You will never be my mother.” He crouched to the ground, picking up what he could of the demolished flash drive and flung it into the garbage. “You’re a lying and washed-up old politician. You’re just like everybody else here. Svetlana Arsic, you are nothing to me.”

He couldn’t bring himself to look at her, and regretted the words as they came out, and as he saw the skeleton of the circuitry in the trash bin. The words had stung, and the damage had already been done. Svetlana Arsic stood there with her arms folded and her face grim as Cvetko left, not another word spoken.

***

Agim wouldn’t answer any of Cvetko’s texts, and Cvetko found himself frustrated and alone in the dining area. He didn’t get anything to eat but had filled a glass of water for himself. Feeling a bit raw from the incident, the second-best thing next to his lover — sitting next to Komnena Gecaj and Laszlo Mincef.

Most of the other leaders who had chosen to go to the cafeteria were reviewing their notes like primary schoolers studying for a test or glossing over what they knew with a neighbor or two. But Komnena and Laszlo sat on their phones, giggling to themselves like a pair of schoolgirls before Cvetko sat beside them. 

Komnena looked him up and down before scoffing, and Laszlo awkwardly made room for him at the table, shifting aside to let him in. “I was  _ not  _ expecting that from you in there,” Komnena said, avoiding eye contact as she scrolled through her phone. “I have to say, I was already convinced that Ben may have had something to do with this. So, you kinda just drove the point home. Congrats, you have two neighborly friends on your side.”

Nervously, Cvetko scratched the back of his neck and nodded slightly. Laszlo exchanged glances with Komnena and back at Cvetko. “You look like you’re going to be sick. Are you alright?” he asked, placing a protective hand on Cvetko’s forehead. “Well, you aren’t warm. That’s good.” 

“I did it,” Cvetko burst out.

“What…?” Laszlo raised an eyebrow and reclined backwards, letting out a soft laugh. “You’re not serious, are you?”

  
“No, I’m serious. I did it. I did it, I leaked the documents, I’m the whistleblower. Fuck.”

“What the hell?” Komnena asked. “What were you  _ thinking? _ How did you even get those? Why the hell would you-? Goodness, you Serbs are an enigma,” she leaned back, aggressively typing something out on her phone before Laszlo took it from her hand, setting it facedown on the table. 

  
“Cvetko, this is serious. You’re not joking?”

  
“No, I’m not joking. I was angry, and I got the documents fromー” Cvetko paused and stared at his hands. He knew better than to mention Fedya’s name around Laszlo. 

“From…?” Laszlo raised an eyebrow. “Agim? He’s the only one not in it. I mean, makes sense, because, well…” Laszlo trailed off, before falling into subdued laughter. Komnena snickered and Cvetko, seeing that connected the dots.

“You told her?” Cvetko asked, staring stunned at Laszlo as he sat up, shifting forward in his chair. 

***

Ah, jeez. Laszlo heard the sounds of what seemed to be a makeout and groped the bathroom wall for a light, flipping it on. “Can you please  _ not  _ do this in the handicap bathroom?”

He turned to look at who he had walked in on. He assumed Patryka and Arpad, or perhaps Pavla and Klara, Milan and… someone. But this was a bit shocking to him. A bit shocking in the way that he couldn’t really care less but this relationship jumped out to him as quite potentially a firestarter. Actually, more than that, a firestarter that could threaten the stability of the region that had taken so long to become stable in the first place. 

Cvetko Rajkovic and Agim Kuraqtim their faces away from each other, unlinked their hands and their legs and quickly skittered aside from each other as Laszlo watched, eyebrows raised.

  
“It isn’t what it looks like,” Cvetko said, rising to his feet.

  
“Okay, then... what is it?” Laszlo replied, steadying himself as Cvetko approached him. In the corner, Agim looked like he was about to snap as he searched helplessly for his glasses. Cvetko pushed up his glasses and pulled on his tie as he searched for a response.

Jesus fucking Christ. Of course the new kid would have secrets. Everyone in this continent has secrets no matter how innocent or naive they seemed. But this cross felt nearly too much for Laszlo to bear.

***

“Um, yeah. I tell her everything,” Laszlo said, putting his hand on Komnena’s shoulder as Cvetko gawked at them. “What? Calm down, she’s not going to tell anyone.” 

“Both of you are literally the biggest gossips in Europe.”

  
“So?”

“Yeah, so?” Komnena picked up her phone, unlocking it as Cvetko stared at her.

  
“Aren’t you mad at Agim?”

“Uh, no? It’s not my business who he sleeps with,” she shook her head, giving Cvetko a look as she crossed her legs.

“But I’m S-”

“Yeah, and I’m a president. Look, kid, here’s some free advice for you. I don’t care what Agim does or who he’s sleeping with or his political affairs. Of course, I would care if Laszlo happened to be sleeping with you, but that’s because we are friends and we trust each other. I don’t trust Agim and we are sure as hell not friends. We are purely political allies, Cvetko dear. Get used to it, because that’s how it works around here.”

***

  
“How much?” Cvetko asked.

“What?”

  
“How much for you to keep your mouth shut?”

“Cvetko, no. You don’t need to pay me. Do you know what corruption is? I’m sure this is the definition of it,” Laszlo shook his head, lifting his arms up as Cvetko took a step backwards, shamefully looking at the floor.

“Christ, I don’t care, but you both need to be more goddamn careful because next time it’s not going to be me,” Laszlo continued, rubbing his face. He didn’t need  _ this  _ on his shoulders after everything that had happened.

Agim and Cvetko exchanged looks as Agim tightened his belt and fixed up his tie. Laszlo looked piteously at Cvetko as his frightened and quick breathing gradually slowed.

***

“Yeah. I mean, she’s right, nobody in this room is my friend. Besides Komnena. See, you said it yourself on the first night here. We’re political opponents but act like birds of a feather when there’s no cameras or subtext involved. There’s a reason for that,” Laszlo said, folding his arms.

“Politics, baby!” Komnena set her phone on the table and put her hands behind her head, leaning back as Cvetko sat there, rubbing his eyes. 

“So you’re not going to tell?”

“Nope,” the pair said simultaneously, before bursting back into giggles.

***

Laszlo turned his attention to Agim. “Does Komnena know?”

He shook his head, silent as he chewed on his lip. Laszlo raised his eyebrow, then glanced back at Cvetko.

  
“Did… Svetlana?”

“No.”

Laszlo threw his arms up, letting out a pained laugh as the pair shifted uncomfortably. “Great. Fantastic. Well, you guys don’t have to be afraid because I’m not getting anything out of knowing this.” He spun the chair around and headed for the door.   
  
“Don’t you need to use the bathroom?” Cvetko asked.

  
“Not anymore!”

***

“Okay, well, I didn’t get the documents from Agim.”

“Then Svetlana? Did your own research? What?” Laszlo asked, curious. Cvetko made eye contact with Laszlo, and looked aside, then down at his feet. It took Laszlo a moment but he opened his mouth, let out a slight laugh, and then nodded. “Ah. Okay, I see. Him?”

“Yeah,” Cvetko said.

  
“Don’t be scared, I’m not judging you,” Laszlo turned aside, looking at Komnena as he snapped his fingers. “Wait, what was that thing I told you about, erm, I can’t remember. It had to do with Fe…”

“His receipts?”

“Yeah, his receipts. I thought he was joking. Cvetko, do you have his receipts?” 

Cvetko looked at Komnena. She sighed, rubbing her eyes and setting her phone down on its face. “He always said he had these, um, these documents? Memos? He’d been siphoning them from a person, he wouldn’t say who, though. I thought it was porn, if I’m being real. Was it on a flash drive?”

  
“Yep.”

“Okay, well, not porn, I guess. You leaked _ his _ receipts?! I seriously thought he was joking! I really did! Fuck. He really was a monster,” Komnena said, adjusting her hijab as she leaned backwards, wrapping an arm around Laszlo. “But you couldn’t have gotten all that from him, right?”

“Some of it I may have found on my own,” Cvetko said. It was the truth. While he had taken the flash drive, he and Sofia had scrutinized everything on Svetlana’s computer and in the archives that hadn’t been destroyed in the bombing. Everything was in that little manila folder he’d been carting with him, and even though the flash drive was history now, he reached in his suitcase. He took out the binder, flipped all the way to the back, and tossed the manila folder on the table.

“That’s everything I’ve gathered. I released copies of all of it last night and sent a copy of all of it to Yana Crispino.”

“She was accusing you of murder three days ago,” Laszlo muttered, rolling his eyes as he reached for the folder. “And these are the original copies of everything?”

“Yeah.”

Laszlo withdrew his hand and eyed the folder sheepishly. “I think it’s best I don’t.” Komnena also side-eyed the folder and crossed her legs, pushing it aside. 

“Out of sight, out of mind,” she said, turning back to Cvetko.

  
“Well, now you’re going to actually be crucified for this. What’s your plan if Ben finds out?”

  
“I don’t know, I just hoped he wouldn’t,” Cvetko mumbled, taking a sip of his water. He realized at that moment how dehydrated he was, and chugged the rest of it. “This was a bad idea.”

“Yeah, kind of. I think you had the right intention in mind, though, unless you intended to… get your boyfriend accused of  _ that _ on top of being accused of murder?” Laszlo said.

  
“That was not my intention. I am just sick of everyone in this place being horrible, corrupt, and senselessly accusatory. Agim is not a bad person. See, he never even did anything shitty from what I could gather, and these are Serbian sources.”

“Just because he’s not outwardly corrupt doesn’t mean he’s not bad, Cvetko, but I get it. This is going to weed out the playing field for spring, though, so… congrats? Maybe we’ll get some fresh meat around here.” Laszlo elbowed Komnena with a grin. 

Cvetko’s hands felt clammy, and he began to feel green again. “So, um, for the vote…”   
  
“We won’t rat you out. We were going to vote for Ben anyways. It’s usually in-character for him to throw us under the bus, as you said during your speech. It’s time he gets a taste of his own medicine,” Komnena said, grinning at Cvetko and giving him a friendly elbow. “See, you aren’t so bad. I know we’re hard on you, but it’s nothing personal. Political. Now you know. I’m not corrupt, you’re not corrupt, Laszlo and Agim aren’t corrupt ー funny, the most corrupt region in Europe isn’t the one being corrupt for once. It’s poetry,” she snorted, ruffling Cvetko’s hair as he blushed. 

“Congratulations, Cvetko, you’ve earned our seal of approval,” Laszlo grinned. Cvetko exhaled, feeling both a lot less ill and stressed, and a lot more confident. 

“Thanks for being… cool neighbors. And cool familiars,” he said, brushing his hair out of his face.

  
“Oh, psh. You’re being too kind,” Komnena muttered. 

“Way too kind. We’re here for you. Look, you have a good heart. Good intentions. So, we’re your friends, and your allies, and we’ll be here for you when you need us. You have our word,” Laszlo said, sticking out his hand. Komnena took it as Cvetko placed his hand on top. “So don’t be afraid to ask Europe’s biggest gossips for assistance.”

  
Cvetko pulled back, a smile on his face as the tension exited his shoulders. “Thank you.”

He looked back at them a final time as he headed for the door, and out at the cafeteria, out at the other familiars of his inside. Cvetko felt his heart race in his chest as he stepped out into the hall, suitcase in hand.

It had taken a while. But for the first time since his informal inauguration inside of a hospital waiting room, since he became a target for Europe’s biggest political players, since he inherited a position he never felt he deserved ー he felt ready. 


	6. Chapter 6

The debate room was a tiny, circular chamber with 50 chairs around one round table. A circular light fixture dangled above and the room was windowless, leaving it the corners somewhat shadowy and menacing. 45 chairs would often be enough for the entire continent, but Ben had decided to invite Pasha Morosov, president of Transnistria, Olek Slobodyan, and Mashka Pivovarova, the respective presidents of Donetsk and Luhansk. Pietro and Oksana had been pretty angered by the decision but Ben didn’t care, called it an orientation, and allowed them to stay. Gustava knew as well as anybody else that those three wouldn’t have any power in the vote, especially due to the fact they hadn’t been invited to the original meeting in the first place. So, today, 48 out of 50 chairs were occupied, and 43 out of 48 would cast a useless and accusatory vote that would do nothing but further divide Europe. Division was Ben Hunter’s game, it had been since he became Prime Minister, and it would remain that way until his career ended. Gustava was certain of that.

While Gustava herself had participated in the game of division, constantly engaging in a game of cat and mouse with him to propose theory, and decide on the most intelligent form of governance. Republic, monarchy, independent state, it was what kept her and Ben at each other's throats for the past 9 years. But over time, she watched as he became more and more unstable. More unwilling to ideas that weren’t his, more resistant, more thirsty for chaos, and less susceptible to the needs of others. Ben Hunter was the definition of corruption by power. And Gustava could only hope she wouldn’t fall in line behind him.

Although, it seemed she did fall second to Ben Hunter in punctuality, as when she opened one of the large double doors to the small circular room he sat there in his designated seat. Ben didn’t look up. “Hello, Gustava.” She began to feel uneasy as she headed to the table, searching for the plaque among the 50 which read  _ Sweden.  _ He eyed her as her uncomfortable search concluded, and she dropped into her chair, without another word. “Well, I hope you make the right choice today.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

  
“Don’t play dumb with me, Gustava, you’re an intelligent woman. You know what it means.”   
  
She rolled her eyes and placed her binder on the table. “I hope you make the right choice too, Ben.”

He laughed. It was all a game to him. No matter the outcome, if he was voted guilty or not, he would still keep his place, his power. His reputation didn’t matter to him. Not anymore. Reputation is a fickle thing, after all, and after nearly a decade of leadership, it was normal for corruptible and weak men such as Ben to begin to lose their public opinion. Their sense of superiority vanishes, and their methods of leadership become more entropic and frantic as they cling onto a position that they slowly begin to lose as the years tick by. Years and years of rule had made Ben Hunter just that --- an unstable man who began to become more and more erratic and indecisive.

  
Maybe Cvetko was right. Maybe Ben had done this. Perhaps the years of soft power and waging of indirect wars had finally reached their end point and Ben had decided to take the direct initiative for once. Then again, though, she doubted the way he would hang out his deputy prime minister and allies in the EU out on a wire. Sure, he’d left them twisting in the wind before, maybe one too many times, but Ben wasn’t always outwardly malicious. And he was smart, as much as Gustava hated to admit it - he had a good sense of hindsight, and was adjusted to the political workings. In fact, he’d orchestrated many of those recent political norms.

Agim, on the other hand, was a bit more ambidextrous. He had backstabbed Gustava before. Had offered her a deal knowing he already took one from Ben. She had cut him some slack. At the time of Svetlana’s leadership, Agim was caught in a dangerous position. Kosovo was a crockpot for instability, a potential firestarter. And if there was anything that the three of them could agree on was that Europe did not need another war in the Balkans. So she was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt for taking Ben’s offer of alliance, as in her position, she felt that perhaps she would have done the same. Agim put his people first. But either way, he had always been shady. There was always something off about him that Gustava couldn’t put her finger on, but his checkered history of hypocrisy and backstabbing towards his other leaders just seemed too appropriate. And, for everything it was worth, Agim was not afraid to throw everybody under the bus. They had treated him rather poorly for years, after all - a handful of countries still never recognized his independence - and he had a right to be angry about it. But Agim himself was not an angel, and she could see him cherrypicking which documents to release, especially considering he himself had not been indicted within them.

  
Ben made a good case. People were right to mistrust Agim. People were also right to mistrust Ben. But Gustava knew her decision, and she knew it was the right one to make.

She glanced over at the door. The door ajar, Cvetko stepped in, with a few more behind him. He sat close to her, as they weren’t name neighbors, but had the same starting initial. Gustava offered him a gentle smile, and he smiled back. Eventually, after five minutes, the seats filled up, with Agim arriving fashionably late once again. The door shut behind him and he filed over to his seat, hands jammed in his pockets.

Ben Hunter pulled the shoebox out from beneath his spot at the table, and held it in his arms like it was a young child. He stared at Gustava, then out at everyone as he rose to his feet. “We will be pulling a name of an Independent country to be the foreman so there’s no bias towards the EU or CMS, respectively.” He opened the box, and held it out for everyone to see. With more than one name, it didn’t appear to be rigged. Ben held his hand in it, rustling around the sheets of paper, and pulled one out, holding it out to everyone and letting his eyes drift to the southernmost end of the table. “Mr. Mincef, you’re up.” 

Okay, good. Someone who was actually unbiased. Appeared as if the gods were in Gustava’s favor today. Laszlo grumbled something under his breath as he dragged himself over to Ben’s seat. Ben handed him the clipboard full of names and the three options for the vote. “I guess I’m the foreman, huh? Well, anyways, we’re voting on who is responsible for the leaking of 457 papers relating to the private business of a number of heads of state within Europe. The options for vote are Ben Hunter, Agim Kuraqtim…” he narrowed his eyes and raised an eyebrow, then looked at Ben. Ben nodded and Laszlo sighed. “Agim Kuraqtim  _ or  _ someone else. Single option. Or, you can abstain. As shown on the sheet… we’re beginning with the Balkan region then going down alphabetically. Ms. Gecaj, president of Albania, you’re up first.”

“Hunter.”

“Ms. Pekara, president of Bosnia and Herzegovina.”

“Kuraqtim.”

“I’m supposed to ask if you consulted with the two other Bosnian presidents?   
  


Yasmin reclined back in her seat and studied her nails. Gustava could tell she didn’t want to be here. “Yeah, I did.” Laszlo and everybody else knew what a blatant lie that was, but he didn’t protest, merely sighed and rocked his chair back and forth.

  
  


“Alright. Dimiter Kochanov, Prime Minister of Bulgaria. You’ve consulted with Ms. Kostova, president of Bulgaria?”

“Correct. Kuraqtim.”

  
“Ms. Dimic, president of Croatia.”

  
“Hunter.”

“Ms. Mikos, president of Greece.”

“Kuraqtim.”

Laszlo made a show of loudly coughing over her answer and excusing himself as he wrote down the answer with a sour look. 

“Mr. Kuraqtim?”

  
“Hunter.”   
  


“Ms. Dukonovic, president of Montenegro.”   
  


This one was up in the air. “Hunter.” 

“I am Mr. Mincef, president of North Macedonia, and I am voting Hunter. Mr. Kovacs, president of Slovenia.” 

“Kuraqtim.”

“Mr. Rajkovic, president of Serbia, is our final voter in the Balkan region before we move onto the rest of Europe. You may vote now.”

Cvetko leaned forward, his hands pursed as he shifted. “Hunter.”   
  


“What a surprise. Yawn. Out of the 10 countries in the Balkans, 5 voted for Ben Hunter, 5 voted for Agim Kuraqtim, 0 voted to abstain. Well, this is going to be fun, isn’t it?” Laszlo looked out at the crowd of leaders and let out a jaded sigh when nobody responded. “For sure. Okayyyyy, party people, moving onto Europe now. Ms. Wittenberg, president of Austria.”

“Kuraqtim.”

“Ms. Alkashenko, president of Belarus.”

  
Gustava glanced at Alexandra. She already knew Alexandra’s decision, and as she leaned to the microphone, she flashed Gustava a quick smile. “Hunter.”

Laszlo continued down the list, and Gustava began to gather the votes in her head. She kept a careful ear out for a few people whose votes would be up in the air, and happened to miss Laszlo’s pause as he skipped over Donetsk. He eyed Ben, who gave him another frustrated nod, and Laszlo scaled down. Mr. Slobodyan seemed nonplussed anyhow.

“Mr. Perhonen, president of Finland.”   
  
Gustava wanted to hear this one. Frans and her had not been on the best terms as of late, but she was certain that she had educated Frans enough to make the correct decision. She was pleased that Alexandra did, and she only hoped that her second apprentice would do the same. It took him a moment, but his eyes caught Gustava’s and he straightened his shoulders, bettering his posture as he leaned into the microphone. “Hunter.”

  
Her tension left her body. She didn’t know what she was so frightened of. Of course he would make the correct choice in the end. Laszlo’s roll call continued. The votes seemed to be half and half so far, as the Balkan vote prophesied. 

“Mr. Einziger, president of Norway.”

Gustava stared. She stared fire at her cousin, begging him internally with all she could to make the right decision, to change the hand of the universe. He opened his mouth, did a double take, and then cleared his throat. “Abstain.” She closed her eyes, burying her face in her hands as Oliver sat back, looking ill to his stomach. This family division pleased Ben to a certain, and he crossed his legs with his hands folded, trying to force the grin on his face back into a serious expression. She rubbed her eyes, and pried her eyes off of Oliver, knowing that his choice was set in stone now. She could only hope her other cousin would also make the correct decision.

  
“Ms. Kollarova, president of Slovakia.”

“Kuraqtim.”

  
Gustava looked right at her, horrified, and Klara looked back, deadpan. She rolled her eyes and gave a shrug as Gustava sunk into her chair. Suddenly, Oliver’s hand shot up. 

  
“Yes?” Laszlo asked.

  
“I’d like to change my vote,” he asked.

“You can’t do that,” Ben said. “You can’t change your vote just because your cousin didn’t vote the way you want, that’s not how it works. You made your choice, you’re abstaining. Mr. Mincef, do you want to give Mr. Einziger another review of how the voting process works?”

Oliver backed down and stared at his feet, guilty. Gustava felt lightheaded. After all of this, she was going to have Ben Hunter’s head for embarrassing him like that whether he was voted guilty or innocent. 

“Ms. Nielsen, prime minister of Sweden.”

“Hunter,” she spat, watching as Ben shifted proudly in his chair.

“Ms. Schaub, president of Switzerland.”   
  


“Abstain.”

Gustava leaned back in her chair, trying to steady herself as her head spun. She wanted to leave as her stomach churned, but it was in her best interest to stay. Ben would use any excuse to not count her vote. They’d already been over this twice, but Laszlo hesitated as he skipped over Transnistria’s name on the sheet. “Mr. Naumenko, president of Ukraine.”   
  


“Excuse me?”

Gustava wasn’t expecting to hear  _ that _ voice. Oksana Juravschi, president of Moldova, had gotten to her feet. She had voted for Ben.   
  
“You skipped over Mr. Morosov.” She began to wake up again. Or, this was a fever dream where the hill on which the president of Moldova chose to die on involved her worst enemy. Yes, perhaps this was a bad dream. A nightmare, actually.

“... He’s not on the list,” Laszlo fibbed.

“If he wasn’t on the list he wouldn’t be in the room,” she shot back. Oksana turned her attention to Ben Hunter. “You. Why the hell would you invite him, and Ms. Pivovarova and Mr. Slobodyan if you’re going to ignore them this entire week? Well, actually, I know the answer.”

“You’re derailing the conversation, Ms. Juravschi, this is an important decision,” Ben replied.

“She can take as much time as she needs,” Laszlo said from across the room. Pietro Naumenko seemed actually very amused by this, and Gustava would think he’d agree with Laszlo’s sentiment. He was no friend of Pivovarova and Slobodyan but Morosov and Juravschi were a different story. In fact, he was probably just happy to see his friend standing up for the weakling.   
  
“Mr. Hunter, you can’t keep your fingers out of anybody’s business. You invited us here just to watch the sparks fly among Mr. Naumenko and I, but you’re not even going to give them the respect to allow them to make some insignificant vote. That’s disgraceful. Really admitting your guilt there. Are you going to let them vote?”

  
Ben shook his head. “I won’t.” Oksana looked around and while Laszlo appeared impressed, he gave a grave nod. “Fine then.” She’d have to settle. Pasha Morosov looked red as a tomato as Oksana, outnumbered, fell back into her seat. Her face was unamused and dark with anger. Ben coughed, tapping his fingers on the table as Laszlo cleared his throat. “Erm, Mr. Naumenko, president of Ukraine.”

Gustava glanced over at Pietro. Pasha had his hand cupped around his ear, and he whispered something in it. Pietro laughed, pulling aside as he waved his hand. “Hunter. If it counts, Mr. Morosov would like to vote Hunter as well.”

“We will unfortunately be unable to incorporate his vote into the final count but we appreciate his input,” Laszlo said with a forced smile. Oksana was right, Gustava thought. Ben would continue to play his games of division and stoke the fires of conflicts he had no being involved in while simultaneously silencing the victims of his game. If anything, that was an admission of his guilt. Even if Ben wasn't guilty, that much was true. Ben Hunter would always be a sick, manipulative, corrupt man, using people who were just as qualified and smart as him for his pawns.

Well, it was Ben Hunter’s turn, and Gustava knew how this would end. Their eyes met. He grinned, and pulled the microphone towards him as Laszlo read.

“Mr. Hunter, prime minister of the United Kingdom.”

“Mr. Kuraqtim.”

“Alright. That concludes the vote for today, folks. Out of the 33 countries in the rest of mainland Europe, 3 voted to abstain, 16 voted for Ben Hunter…” Gustava had lost count of the votes when Oliver had made his fateful choice. But she knew from the grim expression on Laszlo’s face what the outcome was. “17 voted for Agim Kuraqtim. This brings the total vote to 21 votes for Ben Hunter, 22 votes for Agim Kuraqtim, 3 abstaining.”

Oliver looked mortified. His pleading eyes went right to Gustava, and he mouthed his next words. “I’m sorry.” 

  
She closed her eyes, pinching her nose. She would forgive him. He was her cousin, her closest friend who’d she had been a friend with since childhood. But this choice would be a lesson for him that would have it’s terrible repercussions, and she wouldn’t be able to hide him from that. She couldn’t.

Ben looked so pleased with himself, and Gustava just wanted to rip his smug face off. She could see Agim’s expression turn ice cold, as if he had just begun to dissociate.

  
“Well, I think that tells us everything we need to know…”

Turning her attention to Cvetko, she could see the queasiness on his face. “No…” he muttered.

  
“That we all unanimously agree that Agim Kuraqtim is guilty.”

“How can it be unanimous if you’re suppressing votes and not allowing people to switch theirs’?” Gustava asked, rising out of her seat and placing her hands down on the table. “Ah. But then again, when have we ever expected Ben Hunter to conduct a fair election?”

  
“Bold words for someone like you, Gustava, I suggest you-”

“No.”

Gustava’s attention turned to Cvetko, who tried to get to his feet, he stuck his hand up, his face pale as he addressed the crowd. “I- I was-” Before he could finish, with his glasses pushed on top of his head, Cvetko’s nose began to drip with blood.   
  
“Cvetko, your  _ nose,”  _ Gustava said, reaching an arm out.   
  
“I- I…” Confused, he reached a hand up to his nose and touched beneath his nose, and seeing blood smeared on his fingertips, the poor thing’s eyes began to flutter, and he dropped over like a domino, out cold.

“Oh my god!” Gustava ran over to his side as Ben and Agim followed, and for a moment a look of pure terror crossed Ben’s face. It was the first time that Gustava had seen him so afraid. “Where’s Imelda? Oh my god, somebody call an ambulance! Now!”


	7. Chapter 7

“Oh, thank God you’re awake.”

Cvetko stared up at the ceiling. His stomach turned and he sprung up at the waist, sitting right up like a toy soldier. “Agim. Where’s Agim?”

“... Not here. Would you like me to get him for you?”

His whole body felt sore again, and all the feeling in his fingertips that he had regained after last night’s sleep had once again vanished. When his vision finally cleared, he was facing Imelda O’Malley, the president of Ireland. Right? Wait. He rubbed his eyes again and looked at her again to make certain he hadn’t fallen back into another dream. Of course, her accent was unmistakable. It wasn’t a dream. As he watched her set down her newspaper and get to her feet, all his memories came flooding back to him and he leaned back down, head spinning as she walked to the window. He squinted, trying to measure the daylight from where he was laying. “How long was I out, exactly?

“10 hours.”

“What?!”

“It’s 11’o’clock,” she continued, looking over at him. Seeing his devastated expression Imelda frowned and approached his bedside. “I don’t think I need to tell you that you got poisoned... again. Combined with the stress of that whole situation, you just were out cold. Well, you had actually stopped breathing for a minute back there, it was terrifying.”

“I— what?! What in the absolute hell is going on?” Cvetko touched his forehead and slumped backward with a groan. “Is it out of me?” 

“Oh, yes. The other doctors made sure of it. You’re not going to die on anybody’s watch just yet,” she said, giving him a pat on the hand, careful not to misplace the IV tube running out of his hand. Cvetko felt his breaths, heavy within his tight chest, and stirred uncomfortably. Imelda’s face was kind, weathered with age, but he could see the dim exhaustion in her eyes as he began to talk again. 

“So did I die?”

“You’re an inquisitive one. For a moment you didn’t breathe and I thought you may have gotten a heart attack. But, the CPR helped.”

He raised an eyebrow as she drew the curtains shut. “Are you the  only president who can do CPR?”

Imelda tilted her head to the side and stretches her arms above her head. “I’m the only one with a medical degree. I’m the only one who can do a lot of things.”

“And I’m the only one with a mathematics degree. We’re in this together,” he muttered, studying the room. Instinct overtook and he moved to push up his glasses before realizing their absence. “Dr. O’Malley, my glasses,” he wheezed, forcing a rapid array of blinks to attempt and clear up his vision.

“You can call me Imelda. They’re at the front desk. I can go pick them up for you,” she offered. 

“Yes, please. Should my stomach be hurting this much?” he asked, unable to curb his inquisitiveness.

“Yes. Yes it should. Why don’t you just ask me all of your questions and I’ll answer them?” she said, unsarcastically, as she fell back in her seat. She picked up the newspaper and flipped it back open. For once, it didn’t have the ruins of Belgrade on the cover, and he felt momentary bliss.

“Is this getting publicized?”

“No. They’re not telling the press, they decided.”

“They?”

“Gustava and Mr. Hunter. Maybe someone will leak it. But officially, no.”

“... Who did it?”

She peeked at him from above the newspaper.

“ Who did it ?” he repeated.

“I don’t have an answer for you,” she replied, turning it back up.

“That’s bullshit. Please, I want to know.”

“ I don’t know . I don’t think anyone does, yet. I think Mr. Hunter intended to do another poll, but everyone adjourned after you, well, didn’t come back,” Imelda said with an absentminded wave of the hand. “Somebody’s going to investigate this and it won’t be the Schengen Police.”

“Then who?”

“Hell if I know. If there was a law enforcement group competent enough then everybody back there would be in prison,” she muttered, rolling her eyes as she set the newspaper down. Cvetko touched the IV in his arm and looked up at her pleadingly. 

“My...”

“Your glasses. I’ll get them. In fact, why don’t you get dressed and then you can come with me?”

“But shouldn’t—“

“You’re ready to be discharged. It’s all a matter of how ready you feel. Do you feel ready, Cvetko?”

It had been a while since he had actually been treated with the maturity he deserved. And from such a respectable figure, too. He fiddled with the tube of the IV and nodded. “I feel ready.”

She glided over to him, expert as she carefully removed the tube and extended a hand to help him up. At first, he hesitated. When he extended his legs across the bedside the pain in his sides doubled for a moment, and he leaned back on the bed, green. “I’m not ready,” he mumbled.

“You say that after I take the IV out? Cvetko, you can do this. You need to get your legs stretched after 10 hours of sleeping. You can come right back and you can sleep some more, alright? Come on. A quick walk and back. We can get some food.”

He rubbed his eyes and sat up. At the mention of eating the feeling of hunger suddenly came back to him and he outstreched his hand to Imelda. “I’m hungry.”

“Yeah, I know. Did you even eat breakfast?”

“I had coffee for breakfast.”

“Fan-tas-tic. Now, one, two, three.”

She pulled him up and Cvetko stumbled forward, and it took a second for him to find his footing on the linoleum tiles. He balanced himself beside her and let out a deep breath, relieved as feeling returned to his legs. “I’ll let you put on your clothes. See you outside.” 

As Imelda left, leaving behind her newspaper and Cvetko’s clothes underneath the chair, he expectedto hear the whispers of the ghosts behind him. Strangely enough, there was silence. He paced and searched for the rosary on him. Nothing. As he put on his clothes he digged in his pockets for the Orthodox cross. Still nothing. He called Svetlana’s name. Fedya’s. A few others. Nothing.

He stared at himself in the washbasin mirror. The silence was utterly deafening. Resigned, he touched the empty air around him. Despite everything that had happened, he couldn’t help but feel a bit alone.

Walking out, another object came to mind. “I was wondering if you had my phone...?” Cvetko asked, shifting his weight side to side as he followed Imelda down the hallway. 

“Yes. It was in your pocket. It’s at the front desk, I can grab it for you.”

“Alright,” he rubbed the back of his neck, glancing up and down the dark and unfamiliar corridor. “Um... I should have asked this earlier. Where are we?”

“Luxembourg City. Hospital Center. Couldn’t cart you over the German border, so this was faster. We’re about half an hour out from Schengen.”

“So we’ll be back tonight.”

“Yes. Unless you feel safer here,” she said, glancing over her shoulder at him. “I’ve called Mr. Hunter. He and the rest of the numens of Western Europe will make special arrangements for you if you choose to return.”

Special arrangements. So, isolation. No more late-night rendevouzes with Agim, it seemed. His heart started to race again, which turned into chest pain, and Cvetko stopped himself. Propping himself up against a wall with one hand, he gulped and stared at his shoes. “I don’t think I can go back to Schengen.”

Imelda paused, looking at him piteously as he trembled, as if the entire building had become suddenly frigid. His breath hitched and he straightend up, shaking his head as he raised his hands. “I’m fine. I’m fine. I can go back.”

“Cvetko. You’re not going back. You don’t have to go back, it’s perfectly fine,” she soothed, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Breathe. Through your nose, out your mouth. This has taken a toll on you. You need a break. Mr. Hunter and the others will understand, I promise. Please do not worry yourself.” Anxiety had overtaken him, and it was true — this whole month had stretched him thin in more ways than he thought were possible, and he was so exhausted. So very exhausted. Trembling, tired, and hungry, he nodded. Imelda rubbed his shoulders and led him back to his room, anxiety subsiding as she helped him return to bed. “I’ll fetch your glasses and phone.”

Imelda disappeared out the door. Cvetko rolled over, hoping to keep his mind off of Schengen, off of everything. At least someone treated him like an adult with autonomy rather than a glorified child, he thought. At least somebody made sense in this whole chaotic mess of a system. She returned with two plastic bags and a plate of food and set them on the table beside him. 

“I reccommend you avoid your phone,” she advised. “Just for the evening. Complete break.” Cvetko nodded, pulling the blanket over him as she sat down on the bed. “I have to go back. I’m sorry to leave you, but the doctors here will take good care of you. They’re trustworthy.” 

He nodded once again, too disengaged to say anything as he picked up the plastic fork and wedged what he could only assume to be mashed potatoes in his mouth. 

“So I hope to see you back tomorrow evening,”she finished, looking over her shoulder at him. “You’ve worked very hard. You’ve been very brave. I understand the position you’re in right now, and it’s perfectly fine to take breaks. Treasure them. You have people on your side, so don’t give up yet, either.” Concrete, she placed a hand on his and gave it a firm squeeze. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Cvetko. Do feel better.”

Imelda O’Malley was a good person. As she left, Cvetko was firm in that belief. He hadn’t know much about her, previously. Irish president, former doctor — big opponent to Ben Hunter, as Svetlana had said once  en passe . Yes, he knew bits and pieces of the Scottish-English War, the one in 2022, lasted 3 months and changed Europe forever. Didn’t change much in Serbia, initially. Cvetko hadn’t learned or bothered to involve himself in the world of Western politics as a teenager. But, as all drops create ripples, the flood would eventually reach and drown the Balkans in its path. Nobody was immune to the impact of it. Still, all Cvetko knew of it was pieced together by Serbian news stations and the babble of Svetlana’s westerly-inclined ministers. Of course, seeing now, being in the glorious presence of firecrackers Imelda O’Malley and Ben Hunter themselves, he would have to. 

Curious, he reached for his phone, then stopped himself. No. She was right. He couldn’t fill his head with this political and military jargon, not when he was already clouded with exhaustion and the overwhelming pulsation of anxiety, the horrible product of a decaying and collapsing totality of elected officials and astounding corruption. He moaned out for Svetlana one last time. No response. Fedya. No response. He tried all of the names he had learned in quiet Wikipedia searches, article readings, and ghostly whisperings. Nothing. His head felt empty, barren, free of the infection of literal spiritual intervention. But, for once, he was desperate to hear her voice again, see her face, have her cradle him and tell him he’d end up alright. Even to have Fedya do the same, albeit bitterly and in cold fashion. He outstretched his hands into the darkness, hoping to feel something, sense someone, 

but nobody came.

Cvetko slipped back into sleep.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> boy come in ur gonna get a cold

Agim Kuraqtim, if that was even his name, left the room a guilty man. After Cvetko was dragged off by Imelda, after Ben tried to rile down the anxious leaders and almost tried to begin another session of votes, he stormed out. He couldn’t take it anymore. A few others followed, seeing it as their cue to leave, but Agim walked his own way, outside, into the courtyard behind the half-constructed building. 

Glasses off, jacket off, he plopped down onto the grass and reclined, face in his hands, and began to cry. It was relieving, almost therapeutic, to finally let go of all that emotion he had hid behind indifference and silence. Proceeding what felt like years of lonely wailing and sobbing, the tears subsided, he groped around for his glasses, and sat up. 

He saw Ben Hunter — at least, a smudge of him — just rounding the corner, paused when he saw Agim’s tear-soaked face. Ben seemed momentarily unsure of what to do, teetering on his heels before he began to back away. Agim smiled, grabbing his glasses as he rose to his feet, and pursued his tormentor. “Come back.”

Once again, Ben’s debonair had been thrown off. He had another momentary buffer as he did a quick circle, before booking it towards the door. Agim made no trouble catching up to him and grabbing Ben by the collar, dragging him back as the latter protested. “Let me go at once,” he demanded, full of air and rage as he kicked in Agim’s grip. The Kosovar would not submit to his demands, however, and hoisted Ben up with one hand as he returned to the spot where he had discarded his jacket. Right beside a bed of multicolored flowers, fluttering in the light wind. Agim held Ben by the collar of his shirt, just slightly dangling him off his feet as Ben smoldered. “Do you know what—“

Agim cut him off as he placed his other hand on Ben’s collar, holding him close to his face. “Shh. You talk too much,” he replied. Ben opened his mouth, his face red as Agim lowered him. Ben attempted to turn away, but Agim didn’t hesitate to pull him back by his shirt, swinging him around so that the two faced each other. Ben stood there in silent anger. Agim’s lip trembled as he studied his expression. “You’re ruining my life,” he muttered, tears sliding down his face again. He loosened his grip on Ben’s shirt. Ben shrunk backwards, looking feeble as he fixed his tie.

“You— you can’t just do that to me,” Agim said, stooping to pick up his jacket.

“Why?” Ben asked, raising his eyebrows. “You’re the one who did it.”

“No, no I did not. I didn’t do it. Did you do it?”

Ben shook his head. “No. You didn’t?” 

Agim laughed, wiping his cheek as he threw on his jacket. “No. No, I fucking didn’t. But now you have to mess everything up and ruin everything because that’s all you’re good for.” Throwing up his arms in a stupor, Agim fell back, letting the bed of flowers catch him. Ben towered over him, hands behind his back.

“I’m sorry,” he said, plain and simple. No rhetoric or hyperbole or accusations. A simple apology from the man who could barely author a simple truth. Agim turned away. 

“I don’t accept,” he mumbled, hands clenched into fists.

“Of course you don’t. But this is politics. We all have to do things we don’t like.”

“We don’t have to buy into untruths and silly whodunnits just because your little deputy and all your little friends got hung out to dry.” Agim rolled over, plucking a flower from the dirt and beginning to slowly remove its petals. He loves me. He loves me. He loves me. “Are you certain it wasn’t you? It seems very like you to buy into such lowly methods of intimidation.”

“No. I’m sure. Are you sure it wasn’t you, you two-faced and backstabbing amateur? Christ,” Ben said, shaking his head as he adjusted the ridge of his collar. “Always have to play both sides, you. Can never have just one person to brownnose. Stand for something. Stop being a walking contradiction.” Ben’s voice was ice. “You’ll be finished by April.”

“Well, I’m resigning. So you won’t have to worry about little old me anymore,” Agim shot back as he rose to his feet, letting the stem drop from his fingers. 

“What?”

“Resignation. Tomorrow. Goodbye, Mr. Hunter.” Agim offered nothing else as he shoved by Ben, heading for the building. The sky had begun to turn gray, dark clouds filling the horizon as the wind settled in. 

“Wait,” Ben muttered, stumbling behind, dumbfounded. “Wait. Agim.”

“Don’t fucking call me— Don’t fucking use my first name! You’re not my goddamn familiar!” Agim suddenly flared up, turning around to face Ben as he sized him up. Ben put his hands up, eyes on his feet as Agim’s breathing hitched.

“Please do not resign. I say this from the bottom of my heart,” Ben pleaded. Agim’s shoulders relaxed backward, and he tilted his head as Ben swallowed, then continued. “Don’t. It isn’t worth it. I will do everything in my power to fix—“

“You’ve already done enough,” Agim hissed, taking a step backwards as Ben straightened. “The only reason you want me to stay is for your games. I’m a chess piece to you.” He laughed again, lifting his hands behind his head. “I used to play chess. With my caretakers. Kings and queens, pawns and knights, winners, losers. You know. You win some. Lose some. People’s lives aren’t a game of chess, though, Mr. Hunter,” Agim’s bitterness manifesting in his words, “and you can’t use humans to your advantage. You can’t use my goddamn country to work your gambit. What if I’m replaced by somebody who you can’t use? So be it. Fuck it. My life’s already ruined, maybe they’ll come for me next.” Agim threw up his hands, and thunder boomed as the rain started to pour. Pattering on the sidewalk as Ben stood there, defeated. 

The thunder rumbled again, and Agim made his way to the building before he heard an angry torrent of footsteps behind him. Ben cupped his hands around Agim’s face, and pulled him close. The glasses on the bridge of his nose slid down, jaw clenched as Ben gave it a firm squeeze, expression concrete. The rain cascaded from above, a furious throng of drops as Ben dug his nails into Agim’s jaw. “Never speak to me in that manner again, you immature child.“ Ben’s face was withered with age. He had been handsome and young when he had taken office, when Agim was a teenager. But now his reign had lasted 12 long and draining years, and it was patterned in the bags underneath his eyes, the wrinkles in his skin, and the white forming in his hair and beard. Ben’s expression twisted, and he drew his hand backwards.

It was not enough to draw blood, but the marks were deep on his face. Agim stood there as Ben stared at him, the rain pouring around them as lightning crackled in the distance, sending violent echoes through the sky. Agim touched his face and Ben shifted backwards, guilty as he darted away. “Go to hell,” he muttered as he slunk by, leaving Agim alone in the violence of the downpour. Thunder boomed. The sky lit up a terrifying blue. And Agim Kuraqtim, if that was his real name, stood there. Hugging himself as the wind howled and the rain fogged up his glasses. Soaked to the bone, shivering, he stood there.

***

  
  


Komnena and Laszlo had found their refuge in the cafeteria. It was accessible for Laszlo and Komnena could easily reach it without alerting the security which had promptly been installed that afternoon. 

Cvetko Rajkovic was lucky. He was asleep when the video surfaced at midnight. Someone, an anonymous number, had first posted it on Twitter to a chorus of shock and awe. The video was rapidly circulated and less than half an hour later everyone in the building — at least, anyone who was awake, had seen it. A sex tape. Just what everybody needed on top of this. And what better sex tape then one that involves two heads of state?

“It had to have been someone involved with Patryka. Or Arpad. It couldn’t have been anybody here, right?” Komnena asked, having substitued her hijab with a makeshift one out of a hoodie and loosely tied bandana. Laszlo’s eyes were glued to the screen, the blue glow lighting up his face, and he shook his head as he uttered an off-topic response. 

“It’s like one of those Russian car crash videos. You want to look away because it’s so disgusting but you can’t,” he muttered, dangling it in front of himself. “Jeez.”

“It couldn’t have been Cvetko, though, right?” she mumbled, setting it facedown.

“No, why would it have been? I mean, I don’t think the flash drive would have it. Where would...” Laszlo finally broke away from the screen, placing it aside as he rubbed his eyes. “Fuck me. God, I don’t know. He’s probably still out cold!”

Komnena picked up her phone again. A torrent of notifications poured across her screen, and she sighed, placing it facedown as she tapped her chin. “Well, you read the papers, right?”

“Somewhat. I can’t stand seeing his— fuck.” Laszlo choked out, waving a hand as he rubbed his temples. Komnena backed off, knowing that the juggling of Fedya’s presence was something that distressed Laszlo to no end. “I sort of did. Why?”

“Arpad, Patryka. Involved with him. Nearly 100%. They shared everything. If Cvetko had it then god knows that shit had to have been on there!” Komnena sat back, hands folded. “They’re like... some horny trifecta.”

“But he doesn’t have access to it, he’s asleep. Where did he leave it?” Laszlo muttered, drumming his fingers on the table.

“Probably in his room. I mean, it’s probably on his computer. He uploaded everything, I guess. Could have just printed out the text files. Between you and me, Cvetko doesn’t appear to be very technologically advanced.”

Laszlo and Komnena exchanged looks. She tilted her head and cocked an inquisitive eyebrow. He replied with a grin and a nod. “Only one way to find out,” he said under his breath.

***

Getting through security would be a hassle. Most the guards were sent by the EU, members of Europol, equipped with toys such as tasers. Nothing threatening. But they most definitely would not let either of them through, Laszlo figured as he retrieved his bobby pins and handheld tension wrench from his room. Each world leader had their talents and quirks, his just happened to be lock picking. Maybe, Komnena offered, they’d have to go another route. A route with a name and a room — Miss Sofia Adeyemi. 

Sofia opened her door, tired and in nothing except pajamas, her frizzy hair pulled to the side. For a moment, she seemed unsure of who these two randos were, before she recalled their faces. “Oh. Oh, I’m sorry. President Mincef. President Gecaj. Do you... need anything?” Sofia asked, yawning as she rubbed her eyes. Komnena leaned against the doorway, crossing her legs vivaciously as Sofia eyed her, expression blank.

“So. I may have forgotten something in Mr. Rajkovic’s room...” Komnena said, smooth as butter as she leaned towards Sofia. 

“A flash drive. We lended him a flash drive,” Laszlo interjected, shooting his companion a look. Komnena shrunk against the wall, aware that her methods of flirtation were obviously not as effective this evening. Sofia glanced at both of them, unsure.

“Is this about the sex tape?” she asked.

“Whaaaat? What sex tape? We don’t know anything about... that,” Komnena said, rubbing the back of her neck.

Sofia yawned and dug her phone out of her pocket, pulling up something as she leaned against the doorframe opposite Komnena. “President Gecaj. 32 minutes ago you retweeted the original post, then quote-tweeted it saying ‘Love is love, as President, I respect all relationships, normal or heterosexual.’ Then you tweeted ‘Hungary should be renamed Thirstary.’ President Mincef. 20 minutes ago. Quoted the original video with ‘Poland and Hungary are intimate cultures in more ways than one.’ Then, ‘Why do these dumb bitches record themselves knowing that shit is obviously finna get leaked by some bored 15-year-old hacker from Chechenya.’”

The pair shrunk backwards, Komnena ducking away from eye contact with Sofia as she gave them judging looks. “I don’t see what you need me for. He doesn’t have it. Most definitely not the one who released it.” Her eyes were brutal. “I have to say no.”

“But—“

“No. Good night.” The door clicked shut, and the pair’s hands dropped to their sides with a sigh. 

Komnena dug in her phone for her pocket, and looked up when she heard the sound of footsteps down the hallway. About three or four uniformed men strolled past, talking and giggling amongst themselves and immune to the presence of the two world leaders in the hallway. Exchanging glances, Komnena shoved the phone in Laszlo’s face as she started to lead him down the hallway. “It’s 1am. Shift change. Hurry up. You still have the stuff?”

“Yeppers,” Laszlo waved down Komnena to Cvetko’s room, and he jammed the tension wrench into the lock, fiddling with the pins as he worked his magic.

“We have about ten minutes. Let’s be quick.”

“The door isn’t budging,” Laszlo muttered, squinting as he leaned forward.

“Are you doing it wrong?” Komnena asked, making sure to keep alert as she studied the empty hallway. 

“No. These fucking things are like— Shit. Fuck.” Laszlo yanked the wrench from the lock as Komnena slammed her hands atop the handles of his wheelchair. 

Opposite the pair stood Dimiter Kochanov, Prime Minister of Bulgaria. The suitcase he carried clattered to the floor as he reached in his pocket for his phone.

“It’s not what it looks like,” Komnena began, outstretching a hand as Laszlo started to boil, a pout etched on his face as Dimiter struggled with his phone.

“Well— what is it? God, you’re dead! As soon as I, just, erm—“ 

Komnena plucked the phone from his hand, raising it high above his head as best she could. “No.”

“Give it back,” he demanded. “Or I swear, I’ll have you both crucified by tomorrow morning!”

“You wish you had that power, idiot,” Laszlo scoffed, an eyebrow increduously cocked as Dimiter scuffled his feet. “You’re just some substitute who was sent here because Ms. Kostova was too cowardly to come here and face me. How about you extend her my deepest disrespects, Kochanov, and we can forget about all of this?”

Dimiter eyed Laszlo, his lip trembling as Laszlo glared across at him. Dimiter’s eyes darted around the hall as he turned his attention to the Macedonian, a finger outstretched. “We made an example out of you once, and I’m not afraid to—“

Komnena didn’t even let him finish that sentence before she gave him a hard smack across the face. Dimiter lurched back, rubbing his face. “You do not treat your superior with that type of decorum, Mr. Kochanov. I suggest you rethink your wording and pace yourself before you ever even think of disrespecting Mr. Mincef like that again, you horrid little leech.” Komnena stooped down to a terrified Dimiter’s height and shoved the phone into his hands. “Now. Where are you running off to at this hour?”

He shoved the phone in his pocket, shakily bending to pick up his suitcase. “I’m leaving. I’m going back to Sofia. I can’t do this anymore,” he mumbled.

“Why? Do you have a sex tape too, you glorified receptionist?” Laszlo crossed his arms, a sly look crossing his face as Dimiter straightened.

“Absolutely not,” he murmured, passing Komnena and storming by Laszlo. “See you fuckers in hell,” he said, throwing up an arm.

“Good riddance, asshole!” Laszlo shot back. His hands shook as the tension wrench and pins fell to the floor, Komnena crouching to pick them up. “God, I hate Bulgarians,” he muttered.

“So. Kochanov’s out. Does this mean...?” Komnena handed the pins to Laszlo, fit her hands around the handlebars of his chair, and took off. She had seen Aglika Kostova twice. Once at her inauguration. Once at a meeting between her, Aglika, the Greeks, Laszlo’s de factos, and the Westerns. They hadn’t talked. Barely exchanged pleasantries. Aglika was short, quiet, withdrawn, so much so that she hadn’t even bothered to make the pilgramage to Schengen. Much unlike Fedya, who always had to be the center of attention. But with Dimiter’s departure, it seemed that she would be arriving in Schengen soon.

There was no other choice.

The pair managed to avoid attention from the guards as they arrived at Laszlo’s room. Laszlo protested, begging Komnena to let him roam the castle with her. She refused. “Sleep,” she insisted. “You’ll need it.” He finally gave in, and let the door shut behind him.

Komnena headed back to her room, the hallways a dim shade of ochre. The dark corridor lit up as she reached for her phone, her face submerged in the blue light as the notifications poured in.

  
  



	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> gay rights vs homophobic war criminals

Cvetko rubbed his eyes. He wiped his filthy glasses on his shirt, dirtied by fingerprints and friction from the plastic bag. He rubbed his eyes again and raised the brightness on his screen.

A furious tirade of texts from both Komnena and Laszlo. Links. Many links. All to the same Twitter page — one look was enough before the sinking feeling came back to him. That was not on the flashdrive. God, that was most definitely not on the flashdrive. It couldn’t have been him, anyhow, he was asleep. He swatted the air in the back of the car. Snapped his fingers with incessant rhythm. Muttered the lyrics to some Bulgarian song he’d heard on the radio months ago. The spirits stayed silent and Cvetko stayed lonely.

They let him in through the back. Showed him his new room. He eyed the covers longingly when his mind suddenly went back to that night. “My other room. Um, sorry, my things. Where are they? Where’s Sofia?” 

“All there,” the guard replied, handing him the key. “She brought the things up. I don’t know where she ran off too, though.” 

Cvetko shuffled his feet and stuck the key into the doorknob. “Thank you.”

He realized he hadn’t consulted with her, hadn’t as much spoke a word to her in the past 48 hours, and he the pit in his chest returned. The shoeboxes were underneath his new desk, and the curtains were drawn shut. It had that unfriendly smell of mothballs and clean linen, and Cvetko decided to open the window. Fresh air would do the stuffiness good. After settling, and letting himself absorb in the mattress, he put his phone to his nose and called Sofia.

He waited. And waited. She didn’t pick up. Hey, it’s Sofia, leave a message. So he did, and was struck uncertain of what to say after the sound of the beep.

“I’m sorry,” he forced out.

“For not telling you.”

He crumpled back further into the bed.

“I probably should have thought about it more beforehand.”

The answering machine crinkled with static. He let out a long exhale.

“So I’m going to come clean. And then we will leave. And when we’re back home you’re going to be the next foreign minister, and all of it is going to be okay again.”

The sun began to peek through the window. Morning had come to Schengen’s doorstep.

“So I’ll see you soon. Bye.” 

There was a knock at his door. Cvetko didn’t hesitate to climb to his feet and rush to the door, pushing it open and throwing himself into Agim’s arms. The door slammed shut and they fell into bed, lips meeting for the first time in hours. He spoke, breathless, as Cvetko hurried to loosen his tie. “I booked my flight.”

“...What?” Cvetko stopped, resting his head on Agim’s flight.

Agim placed a hand on Cvetko’s head and brought him close. “I’m going back to Pristina.”

Cvetko stared, blank as a slate and off aimlessly at the beige walls. His heart pounded in his ears and chests.

“Cvetko. Are you alright?” 

Agim cupped his boyfriend’s in his hands, searching for a reaction on his face, before Cvetko’s expression collapsed. He had been so proud of himself for not crying. Not once. Held it together for days. But now, it spilled back out, and he sobbed, pressing his face into Agim’s chest. “I’m going to die here,” he croaked. 

“Oh, baby. Baby. No. Look at me,” Agim moved his hands to Cvetko’s shoulders, holding him tight as he cried. “You’re not. You’re going to be perfect. You will be fine.”

“You don’t know,” Cvetko whimpered. “You don’t know what I did.”

Agim leaned forward, holding Cvetko delicately in his arms. “What? What happened?” He took off Cvetko’s glasses and set them on the nightstand, brushing away his tears as Cvetko sniffled and wheezed.

“I did it, I leaked it, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, please don’t hate me. I did—“ Cvetko’s voice rattled, and he doubled back, his breaths shallow and rapid as he rolled onto the sheets. 

“No,” Agim murmured. “You didn’t. You?”

“I did it. I fucking— I’m horrible. I’m horrible, I’m sorry, Agim, I’m so—“ Cvetko gestured with helpless intention as more tears rolled down his face. Agim rubbed his eyes, set his glasses aside, then propped Cvetko on his lap.

“Breathe. I don’t hate you. God, I could never hate you, please, just... breathe,” Agim grabbed Cvetko’s hands, squeezed them. “In your nose, out your mouth. Please. Relax.” His sobbing slowed as he resigned himself into his boyfriend’s arms, clinging to his shirt as Agim cradled him back and forth. “I love you. So much. You’re going to be okay, alright? You’re going to be okay.”

“I’m going to die.”

“No.”

“They’re going to kill me. Look what they did to Svetlana. Noel. Clarisse. Laszlo’s cabinet. They’re going to—“ Cvetko’s hands trembled, and he looked around helplessly for some type of presidential apparition to back him up on this. Nobody came. Agim wouldn’t see them anyhow. Cvetko tucked his arms around Agim and buried his face in his chest as Agim rocked him back and forth.

“No.”

Cvetko couldn’t do anything except nod as a feeble response. 

“Say it. I am not going to die.”

“I can’t, because that’s not true,” Cvetko wheezed.

Agim squeezed his hands and gave him a look of mixed encouragement. “I am not going to die.”

“I am not going to die,” Cvetko repeated. “I am not going to die.” His chest heaved. “I will not die here.”

“You’re not going to die, period. You won’t. You’re going to be fine,” Agim released Cvetko, letting him slump against the bedframe. “You’re resilient. And brave. So brave. Nobody has the guts to do what you did.” Cvetko looked numbed, his expression blank as he tilted his head against the wooden frame. Agim frowned, and stuck his hand out, tickling Cvetko beneath his neck. “And you’re incredibly cute.”

Cvetko giggled, grabbing Agim’s hand as he fell back onto the bed and staring into his eyes. The dim sunlight lit up his blue eyes vibrantly, and Cvetko gazed into them. His clumsy hands scrambled back up towards Agim’s askew tie, and he pulled him close until their lips met. “I love you,” Cvetko whispered, his breathing finally slowing back to a normal pace, the last of his tears slipping aside. “And I will not die. I promise you, I will not die. Because, we still need to get married, and now that gay marriage is legal in Serbia we can finally—“

Agim cupped Cvetko’s face in his hands and brought him close, dotting his freckles with kisses. “Let’s do it.”

“I love you so much.”

They kissed, and Cvetko began to tighten his boyfriend’s tie for him as they lay intertwined. “When are you leaving?”

“Tomorrow morning.”

“Did you see the... thing?”

“The thing?” Agim blinked and then nodded. “I did. Wasn’t me.” 

“Who could have it been? Nobody here, right?”

Agim shrugged and climbed to his feet, clasping Cvetko’s hand in his. “My flower. I love you so much.” He placed his glasses back on the bridge of his nose, and turned back to Cvetko. “Do I look proper?”

Cvetko smiled, looking down at the messied bedsheets before meeting Agim’s eyes. “More than proper. You look beautiful.”

Agim placed his hand on the doorknob. “What a wonderful liaison.” Turning back to look at Cvetko one last time, he smiled. “I love you. You mean more to me than any position, any title, any status. I don’t care what you do in office. Burn the whole system down, divide everything into communes, grant cities autonomy and freedom, dictate yourself. Because I will continue to love you. I always will, no matter what happens.”

“I love you. Volim te.”

“Une te dua. I love you too, flower.”

The door shut. The golden lights of dawn beamed through the window, and Cvetko squinted and turned to the nightstand. He sighed. Left behind was a small velvet box, and Cvetko blinked. “Oh, Agim, you forgot—“ Out of curiosity, his hand pried open the casing, and he gasped.

The sun glinted off of the golden ring, tucked snug into the padding. Cvetko fitted it across his finger, his heart pounding as he set the box back down.

What a wonderful liaison.

***

“Well, this fucking blows.”

Patryka couldn’t force a response as she stared out the window, gazing at the sunrise peaking over the mountaintops. The border ended just over those peaks. To France, to Germany, then Poland and Hungary. She shook her head and peeked over at Arpad.

“I will leave first,” he volunteered as he adjusted his belt. “Definitely nobody will notice.”

Patryka brushed her hair out of her face, shrugged her shoulders, and knocked her knees. “Do what you want, I don’t give a fuck.”

“You’re really going to act like this right now? I don’t need this. You don’t. Come on now. Patryka. Please,” he ran his hand across her back, and she stepped back. Her hand flew to her face, and she brushed off the rest of her dried makeup. “Can you calm down?”

“I am calm,” she muttered, tightening her hands into fists as she threw her dress on. Her face dropped into her hands, and she offered nothing but a heavy sigh. Arpad watched, betrayed.

“You’re acting like a tool. Come on now,” he snapped, placing his hands behind his head. “It’s just a video.”

“Just a vid—“ she whipped around and glared with burning intensity. “You tool. Some of us are democratically elected. Look what happened. They’re going to find out.”

He shuffled his feet and reddened. “They already know.” 

Patryka smacked herself in the face. “Colossal idiot. I don’t mean us, idiot. The Vladics. Fedya. How could this happen?”

Turning away, he shrugged. “It’s no big deal.”

“To you.”

“It’s not a big deal, Patryka. Really, it’s not.”

“To you.” Rising to her feet, Patryka stormed over to the window and slammed it shut. “We need to be more careful, or else they’re going to find out.”

“They’re too stupid to find out!” Arpad seemed to be relatively insistent of this fact, which seemed to be quite hypocritical in her eyes. 

“Look. If Agim could, anyone can. He’s running his country with a Windows 10 out of a storage facility and look what he did. We’re going to be crucified in April it gets out of hand, and then what?”

“You will,” he cocked an eyebrow and pulled on his tie. “I won’t.” Reaching down, he picked up his watch off the floor. “I’m too sexy to be sacked.”

“No, you’re just a dictator.”

“But I’m a sexy one.”

Patryka rolled her eyes and stuck her hand beneath the bed, searching for her heels when there was a knock on the door. Her and Arpad’s eyes met for a moment, and she dove under the bed as he scrambled to open the door.

“Oh, hi, Dimiter,” he said, coughing as he eyed over his shoulder. 

“I just thought you should know I’m leaving,” Dimiter said. Patryka breathed a sigh of relief, and he stared over Arpad’s shoulder. “Is she here?”

“Is who here?” Arpad replied innocently.

Uncomfortable, Dimiter shifted, and cleared his throat. “Ms. Cielenski.”

Jaded to this, Patryka rolled out from her makeshift hiding space, her cherry red Louboutins in hand. “Mr. Kochanov.”

“Perhaps we should take this outside?”

“No need,” Arpad replied. “How about you come in?”

“I don’t think that’s—“

“I wasn’t asking.”

The door shut and Dimiter made a walkashame to what he deemed the safest corner of the room, fidgeting as Arpad sized him up. “Leaving, pussy boy? Need mommy Aglika to do things for you? Typical.”

“No,” Dimiter shook his head. Patryka watched intently, eyes narrowed, as Arpad began to grill the poor man alive. “No,” he insisted.

“I don’t expect anything more from a man who always switched sides. Fedya always told me you were checkered. Only fitting for you to backtrack. So... not leaving after all?”

“Maybe I’ll stay now,” he said, eyeing Patryka from across the room. She declined his request for help with an averted look, and he winced. “Because you’re being an asshole.”

“Am I?”

“Yep.”

Arpad giggled and patted him on the chest. “You’re no Fedya. Both beanpoles, though. I could snap you in two like a twig.”

“Hey— hey. You know I know what you two are in, right? You guys are so fucked. Once that shit gets out, you’re ruined. Oh, and you?” he jabbed a finger at Patryka. “I know you’re the only one here with a somewhat democratic institution, Hunter is breathing down your neck. You’re sacked. Totally sacked, lady.” 

Arpad bristled. “Hey, douchebag—“

“Shut up, munchkin,” Dimiter muttered. “Glorified dictator. Just wait. Soon, everyone in your shit country’s going to wake up and realize that their lazy little munchkin of a dictator is doing nothing but grinding on the President of Poland and sitting around. Swamp’s being drained, you’re next,” Dimiter pulled his hand back and blinked, shaking his head as he realized what he had just done. Arpad’s face was an event of red.

“Get the hell out of here,” he commanded.

Dimiter danced around Arpad and fiddled with the doorknob before the door flew open. “Just you wait. I’m staying! And the whole world is going to know that Arpad Valentine and Patryka Cielenski are—“

“SHUT UP!”

“Arpad!” 

As he skittered out the door behind Dimiter, Patryka removed her heels, following hot on his heels as Arpad forced him into the stairwell. 

“I’m going to kill you,” Arpad hissed, outstretching a hand to Dimiter’s face as he moved back towards the sloping staircase. Patryka grabbed his arm, wrenching him backwards before Arpad broke free, hands out. As the door shut behind her and as the sun broke through the windows in the staircase, he took another step towards a retreating Dimiter, and kicked him down the flight of stairs. 

Patryka clamped a hand over her mouth to muffle a scream as he thumped over the steps. Arpad heaved, staring down with malicious glee at the scene. Patryka stepped forward, her heart pounding as she joined his side. On the linoleum basing beneath the stairs, a small puddle of red started to form underneath Dimiter’s overturned face.

“What the fuck have you done?” Patryka finally gasped, grabbing him by the collar and hoisting him up. 

“Put me down,” he hissed. Unwilling to incite his ire, she obliged as he paced. “Listen. I’m going to go upstairs. CPR, call an ambulance. As far as you know, he fell. Okay?” he grabbed her hand, pulling her forward as he gazed into her wide eyes. “Okay?” he repeated.

Patryka, agape, nodded. “Okay.”

“I love you,” Arpad replied, kissing her on the hand as she began to descend down the stairs. She didn’t reply as his footsteps started to ascend to the second floor. Speeding her pace, she knelt at the unconcious Dimiter’s side, gently rolling him on his side as he bled. She placed the hand on the head wound, stared at the blood on her palm, and looked back up at the door. Slowly, she started up. Shut the door once, making sure it shut with a bang. Then, she took another look down at the bloodstained floor, and screamed at the top of her lungs. “Somebody help!”

She raced into the hall, grabbing her heels and phone from Arpad’s room and closing the door behind her. “Help!” she shouted, fixing her heels as she yanked at the doorknob, tears dripping from her eyes as a few guards appeared. “Somebody’s fell,” she gasped, holding out her phone in her shaking hands as she dialed the emergency number. “Help.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> last chapter, saddddddd but this was so fun to write i love my ocs!!!

Of course, the meetings weren’t called off. Nothing was ever called off for any reason in Hunter-Nielsen Europe. Everyone mumbled off to their respective posts as the ambulance sirens faded.

Cvetko checked his watch. Aglika Kostova would be leaving Sofia at 2, arriving at 5pm the latest. Backwinds, delays, democracy, all that. That left six hours for Ben Hunter to stuff his 3 friends into his personal meeting room, awkwardly pacing as they sat at their seats.

Agim stayed on his phone, Gustava stayed at the coffee maker, and Cvetko had brought out his book of sudoku. Ben paced aimlessly in his own corner, head against his forehead in deep thought. 

“When are we... going to do work?” Agim asked, at last placing his phone down. Gustava shot Ben a look as she sipped her coffee, then plopped down into her seat.

“Nobody’s doing work today,” she replied.

“Ah, so a ruse.”

“This isn’t accomplishing anything,” Cvetko mumbled, setting his pen down. Ben finally stopped his pacing and pulled out his chair, hands folded. Cvetko clammed for a moment, spinning his pencil in his hand. “Look, I-I didn’t get poisoned three separate times and live for—“

“Oh, shut up,” Ben muttered, rubbing his eyes as he set his glasses down. “This is a survival game, kid, get used to dodging bullets.”

Cvetko stared, agape. “This happened under  your supervision.”

Ben shrugged. “I’m not your babysitter.”

“Whoa. Mr. Hunter,” Gustava interjected, turning towards him. “You really ought to give the poor man some protection after all of this.”

“No, I’ve discussed it with him. He doesn’t need it, he was very clear, weren’t you?”

Cvetko chuckled and leaned back in his chair. “You are unbelieveable. I literally shouldn’t be getting almost assassinated in your little government mountain vacation paradise.” He lifted his hands in surrender, eyebrow cocked. “My apologies for taking my time to think about your offer. I haven’t rejected it. Forgive me for being a bit preoccupied with the death of all my friends and coworkers.”

Gustava and Agim shifted. The room grew increasingly tense as Ben continued with his unrelenting replies. “ I’m  unbelieveable? Says the little boy previously unelected to any public office.”

“Hey, Ben, remember when you killed people?” Agim threw out. The room went dead silent as Ben realized he was outnumbered, balking as he got up from his seat.

“Forgive me for dismantling tyranny.”

“And replacing it with a much more palatable form of tyranny. Ben, you’ve been in an office for over a decade,” Gustava said, placing a hand on her forehead.

“Are you doubting my abilities to run a country, Ms. Nielsen?”

She shrugged and took a long sip of her coffee. “Sure I am. I’ve been doing it for 9 years.”

Ben coughed into his arm and straightened like a stick as he continued his mindless pacing. “Mr. Kuraqtim, you shouldn’t label me as a killer when the blood of Svetlana Arsic is on the hands of your little protostate-“

“You’re not her familar,” Cvetko said, blackening as Ben’s gaze met his. “You’re not doing this for her. You didn’t care. This is about you, it always is.” With that, he tossed up his arms and stared Ben down with an visceral look. “Keep her name out of your lying mouth.”

“May I remind you, Mr. Rajkovic, that I am your  _ senior _ .”

“Yeah, I don’t give a fu— crap,” Cvetko muttered, climbing to his feet and placing his hands behind his head. Ben watched, growing red as Cvetko continued. “This has never been about Svetlana. You always act like the two of you were best friends. But you were never going to let her into your stupid confederacy, and all of Europe knows that. So maybe you should give up the entire pro-integration thing, because it’s— stupid.” Cvetko nodded and shrugged his arms. He turned to look at Agim, with a slight smile, then at Gustava, then back at Ben. “By the way,” he started, backing towards the double doors. “I’m the whistleblower. I released the papers. It’s me. You. You. You. All of you,” Cvetko said, clicking his tongue as he pointed his finger at his three companions. “Go. To. Hell.”

Ben’s expression turned into a beautiful mixture of combined terror and rage. Gustava stared dumbfounded, and Agim couldn’t help but burst into hysterical laughter as Cvetko bolted out the doors. 

“MISTER CVETKO RAJKOVIC!” Ben roared, hurrying to the door with Gustava in tow. Cvetko had already vanished down the hall, though, leaving Ben in a stunned silence. 

“Wow,” Gustava muttered, placing a hand on her forehead. Then, “I’m going to kill that little man.”

Ben dropped to the floor, leaning against the wall as he clutched his chest. “My god, I think I’m about to have a heart attack.” 

“Want me to call an ambulance? Or not, because I’m not your babysitter,” Agim asked, meeting their eyes as he held up his phone. Heaving, Ben stretched out a finger to Agim. 

“Let me at him,” he sputtered.. “You’re so fucked.”

Agim shrugged his arms and stood up. “Go on. Fight me. I’ll shred you like cheese, Prime Minister heart disease.”

“ No ,” Gustava said, helping Ben to the floor as Agim folded his arms. “Actually, we’re not killing anybody. This has been nothing but useless. We’re all going home.”

“You can’t do that,” Ben gasped, leaning against the counter.

“Certainly I can. The four of us are the deciding council for this session, remember? You said it yourself in the opening statement. Sweden, Britain, Serbia, Kosovo. And, and, Ben, absentees are counted as a vote in favor. And since little Cvetko has broken out, it’s a yea for me. Shall we proceed, Mr. Kuraqtim?”

Agim folded his hands and glanced at Ben. Ben gave him a silent look of desperation, a silent moment in which he begged for forgiveness. Agim turned to Gustava. “I vote in favor of your proposal.”

“Then it’s settled. We’re making a closing statement and a closing file and we’re leaving Schengen. Everybody. We have countries to run.”

Ben doubled back. “You’re going to pay for this.”

“Sure. Better get Aglika on the line,” Agim said, shoving his phone in his pocket.

“So, Ben. See you at 2pm for closing statements,” Gustava replied, sticking her hands in her pockets as Agim held the door for her. “Good day.”

Agim let the door shut and he gave Ben a good expressionless look. “I don’t owe you an alliance anymore.”

“You’ve done enough for me,” Ben spat, walking over to Agim and pressing them

together with a handshake. “I hope you resign, and I hope that little Serb bastard eats your fake state up for breakfast.” As he pulled his hand away, he glanced at Agim’s finger and held it up, eyeing the newly appeared ring. “Who’s the unlucky lady?”

Agim laughed and pulled his hand backwards. “Goodbye, Mr. Hunter, and see you at 2’o’clock for closing statements.”

***

The tips of Cvetko’s shoes looked down upon the gray pavement. He held his arms out, rocking back and forth as the gray clouds dimmed the sky above.

As Cvetko bobbled on the rooftop, the door cracked open, and Agim stepped out. Cvetko felt arms around his waist, and looked up behind watery eyes. “What if I jumped?”

“I wouldn’t let you.”

“Who would become president? Nigel de Vere?”

“Cvetko,” Agim muttered, spinning him around and leading him away from the edge. “Stop worrying about it. We’re going home.”

“We are?”

“Yes. Closing statements delivered at 2’o’clock.”

Cvetko looked out at the mountaintops. “This is all my fault.” 

“No. You were very brave.” 

The wind began to pick up, sifting through the greenery down below. “I made a mistake.”

Agim shrugged his shoulders. “I do that all the time. Here, come on,” he offered with a smile and an outstretched hand. 

“Forgive me.”

“I already have. But listen, Cvetko, I’m saying this to you now as a politician,” his words turned deliberate as Cvetko shifted. “You must learn that stunts like that won’t fly here. You will come clean, and they’ll drag you. Oh, they’ll drag you. But you’re going to get through it, and when you do, you’ll be on the right side. Intention matters. So, my baby,” Agim wrapped an arm around Cvetko’s shoulder and pulled him close. “You’re going to be okay.”

They stood there in silence, wrapped in each other’s presence as the wind shifted around them. Cvetko closed his eyes and leaned in further. “Can we stay here?”

“Of course.”

Agim tilted his head towards the sky. With a sigh, he pressed his hands to Cvetko’s shoulders. “Do you intend on... keeping your position?”

It took Cvetko a moment. He opened his eyes, a blank look crossing his face. His thoughts deepened. He gave his glasses a habitual push and turned back to Agim, fingers pressed into the fabric of his coat. “I think so.”

“You’re sure?”

Cvetko stepped backwards, hugging himself and turning out to the landscape again. The wind shoved him back and forth as he thought. “Who will lead if I don’t?”

“Sofia,” Agim threw out.

“No,” Cvetko shook his head. “She’s adamant about not leading. I think she’d throw me before she’d even step into a presidential office.”

Agim twisted around and threw his arms up. “Then those freaky parliament people.”

“Right. Just my luck that the bizarre radicals are the ones who took the day off. No. There is no way in hell I’m letting Serbia become a monarchy... again,” Cvetko shut his eyes and furrowed his brows. “You don’t get it. Don’t you see? If I leave, there’s no one left to be in charge. Those parliament survivors? They’re bloodthirsty. They’d have your head on a stake if they don’t kill each other first. And them what if some hybrid dictator jumps into the chair, and everything Svetlana’s worked for is just,” he trailed off, and flung his hands together. “Fuck! Goddamn shit! She worked so hard, and it’s not all going to be for nothing, Agim. I know you hated her, I know. But, please, god, I can’t see everything she put her life into just fall apart. I couldn’t live with myself if that happened. She died for fucking politics. Do you know how fucked up that is? This whole thing is so...” Cvetko paused histirade to take a few heavy breaths and heavily gesture into the air as Agim watched, silent. “This whole thing is so fucked. And she deserved to retire, and she deserved to have a better successor to build upon the foundation she laid out. Somebody with experience, platform, support. Not her glorified accountant. She should be alive! She should be alive and I should be doing the books and eating cake with you in Skopje, and in 20 yearsshe’d be on a beach and we’d be at our vacation house, but that’s obviously not how it’s going to work out, is it? Is it? Because I’m no desk jockey anymore. I’ve been given this— this  _ ungodly  _ responsibility in a matter of days.”

Cvetko inhaled another long breath, and moved into another round of furious gesticulation. “Do you know how it feels to have your own goddamn brother write a fucking tabloid about you? Saying that you were always the problem child and always the fucking— fuck! Fuck! I’m so mad! I’m sick of this. I want things to be different. I want to be better, I want to be smarter, I want to change the world now. Okay? Because Svetlana is gone, and I can’t bring her back, I can’t bring her presidency back, but I can extend the foundation she built upon as best I can. I can build a house instead of a tower. And you know what? That’s— that’s fine, I’m okay with that...” he shuffled his feet and looked down. “I will learn. I will learn, I promise. What I did was wrong. I’m not one to play judge or jury or executioner, because I’m walking on eggshells and this isn’t my game yet. But you know what? Once everything settles, and it’s good again, and everything is peaceful, I will make it my game. Because...” Finally, he came to a loss of words, and took a step backwards, then another, nearing the edge of the roof.

Agim’s eyes went wide and he ran over, grabbing Cvetko’s hands and squeezing as hard as he possibly could, flinging his boyfriend away from the ledge. He opened his mouth to respond, but couldn’t even force a response as his breathing quickened. Cvetko stared at him, still pressed to his chest, his eyes watering with defiant tears. The wind rushed past them with aggression, and Cvetko leaned in for a kiss. Agim’s hand fit into his neck and he lowered him to the floor, their lips still close together. 

They stood there, intertwined, for what felt like forever.

***

It was 2’o’clock.

The gallery of presidents filed into the room, dead looks on most of their faces. Gustava and Ben sat impatiently at the table as the air buzzed with low chatter and hushed whispers. First to enter was Agim, shuffling to his seat asthe others exchanged glances. Following him was Cvetko with his binder and suitcase — for the first time, wearing a blazer, his shoes tied, his glasses cleaned of fingerprints, a ring on his finger. He met eyes with Agim, then Gustava, then Ben, and made his way to the podium.

“Good afternoon, my fellow Europeans. My name is Cvetko Rajkovic, and I’ve been lying to all of you since yesterday.”

He took a deep breath and leaned into the microphone. 

“On Wednesday morning, I leaked and released the 457 files indicting several key political figures in and out of this chamber of corruption. I take full responsibility, and...” He shut his eyes, swallowing as he reached for his binder, setting the manila folder, his laptop, and his box of files out on the table. “I apologize. And— I will do everything in my power to reverse this.”

In Belgrade, Serbia, in a makeshift governmental building running from an empty office park, a bodyguard met two Turkish businesspeople as they arrived at the door.

“Everything,” Cvetko said, opening the folder and letting the contents — pages, and pages, and pages of annotated papers and documents spill onto the table.” The jury watched, silent.

“Afternoon, Ms. Adeyemi.”

“This is not the end of anyone’s career.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Vladic.”

“Now.” Cvetko looked up at his familiars. The clock ticked in the silent room, and he smiled. 

“Let’s begin.”


End file.
